Blame It On The Stars
by bunyipbabe
Summary: Kraglin thinks being a Ravager will be easy. Kraglin's an idiot. He's got more to contend with than awful food and sweaty leathers; there's the crotchety old captain, her warring first mates, a whole bunch of crewmates more interested in betting on when he'll die than making friends, and that weird blue guy who keeps threatening to kill him with a whistle... Kraglin/Yondu
1. Chapter 1

**I warn you now: this is going to be a long haul! I'm up to 55600 words at the moment and still going strong, so... bear with me?**

 **Anyway. I felt that the Ravagers deserved some more development. I also had a burning desire for pre-Peter Yondu/Kraglin - and thus, a monstrosity was born.**

 **About the rating - any regular readers may be surprised! My summer target is to write an entire fic free of porn, where all sex happens off-screen. Because that's a genuine challenge for me. Wow, I'm... kinda sad. So while there'll be plenty of shippiness and so forth, I'm focusing on action and friendship.**

 **Enjoy~**

* * *

Only thing worse than first night in prison? First night on a Ravager ship.

Kraglin, who has had the misfortune to suffer both, believes that he is in optimum position to make this comparison. Alright, so it hadn't been a bad prison – not by the galaxy's standards. It was no Kyln, that was for sure. But it had been dark-lit and starkly decorated, all bare steel walls and humming energy-bars, built with intimidation in mind. And it had worked. Because he'd been young and scared and he'd never been caught before, and he hadn't dared close his eyes for a week because he was convinced that his bunkmate – a Kree hauled in for mugging – was going to shank him in his sleep.

It had been, to put it simply, utter hell. After seven days and nights spent miserably jerking himself into sweaty, paranoid wakefulness every time he felt himself nod, Kraglin had been ready to crack. He had decided that, seeing as if he carried on that way he was going to die of a heart attack the next time someone electrocuted themselves on the cell bars anyway, he might as well catch a kip before the inevitable. Thus, when the guard belted out the order for lights out, he had boldly let his eyes drift shut and bid adieu to the underside of the bed above, never expecting to look upon it again.

Only he had. The next morning, in fact.

Kraglin had rolled out of the bunk in time for the breakfast buzzer, narrowly avoiding cracking his knees on the ladder and feeling… well, not quite _refreshed,_ but at least as if he wasn't about to keel over and start twitching. Kree fella grunted, informed him that he snored, and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of his month-long stint.

After that experience, Kraglin felt he was ready to conquer anything. He'd survived lock-up. He could take on the whole fucking galaxy: deepspace worms, mad titans, and all.

But nothing could have prepared him for this.

The Ravager's galleon – the _Eclector_ , it's called, whatever that might mean – is an ugly, jagged trapezium, patched together with rust, solder, industrial-age masonry and hope. Its floors are spaced at uneven intervals, some sprawling and spacious, some so cramped Kraglin can't walk through them without hunching his neck. There's only a few lifts, fewer that work with any degree of regularity. Those that are operational clank along their shafts so slowly that you might as well suck it up and climb the ladders anyway. The lights always verge on flickering, and the grills over the vent chutes have a worrying tendency to creak when you put your weight on them.

Now, Kraglin's been on a spaceship before. Of course he has. It's not like he's _planetbound_ or nothing – heck, the very insinuation would make him bristle. He's just never felt quite so unconfident in a spaceship's ability to stay in space.

He knows, logically, that it ain't likely to fall out. Not unless someone does something _really_ stupid, and makes gravity invert galaxy-wide again. Yet he still can't halt that jarring, empty feeling, that hollow pit in his stomach, like he's caught the runs and his guts have gone gushing out down the waste pan, which gapes open as he presses his palm on the convex glass porthole between him and the star-spangled abyss.

He's alone.

Again, this is nothing new. Kraglin can handle himself. When you run with a Hraxian street gang you learn early on that it's wisest not to get attached. But he's never _faced_ his solitude before. He's never had it so clearly laid out for him, so simply and starkly arranged.

It'd been a long and hectic flight from Hrax, one peppered with gunfire and smoke and panic and the beeping of his failing life-support system. Heck, Kraglin hadn't had time to consider what it meant, leaving everything he'd ever known. And now that he's got the chance to stand still and rest a while, to stop running as the universe clatters on around him, it's finally started to sink in, just how _alone_ he really is.

"Gorgeous, ain't it?"

Kraglin whips around, embarrassed at being caught mooning in the direction of a homeplanet left swimming in its constant haze of pollution, a thousand light-years behind. He sees a dark-skinned person about half his height and twice his breadth, gender uncertain, swaddled up in a patchwork leather coat that looks like it's been passed through more Ravagers than they have piercings. Which is a lot. Kraglin assesses the hand held out to him. The palm's wrapped in a dirty bandage, and smells faintly of infection. He takes it, tentative, and metal-studded fingers encircle his wrist.

"Isla," the person says. Gives his forearm a squeeze – the hoop through the skin on the underside of their knuckle digs in – and quirks their mouth in satisfaction. "You're Hraxian."

Kraglin blinks. "You could tell that from touching my hand?"

Isla laughs. It almost sounds friendly. It would sound moreso, if they were looking at him rather than the passing nebula; as it is, Kraglin can't help but feel like an obstacle, and relocates to clear Isla's view. "I wish. It was the teeth that gave it away. That, and Thrabba mentioned he'd recruited one of ya on the last station." They glance at Kraglin from the corner of a crinkled brown eye. "You got the look of a greenie about you."

"Thanks."

"Not something you should thank me for." Isla breathes mist onto the glass. "Word of advice – stop daydreaming by the windows. Home's out there, somewhere, but it ain't never coming back. Not for me, and not for you neither. Sooner you learn that, the longer you're likely to last."

Kraglin decides not to point out that they're hardly following their own advice. They're speaking to him. Of their own free will. And it's not all snarls and insults. That automatically puts them above ninety per cent of the Ravagers he's met so far. "Where're you from then?" he asks instead, figuring small-talk's the best bet in lieu of any more concrete subject matter.

He's wrong.

His words earn him a stiffening of the alien's shoulders. This time, the look that's levelled at him isn't half so light and teasing.

"And don't go poking your nose where it don't belong. Christ, kid, don't you know nothing?"

Shit. He's pissed off the space pirate. The _experienced_ space pirate, he should say, seeing as technically now he's a space pirate too. Kraglin balks, fist balling in preparation for a fight – but the punch never comes. Isla pushes off the glass. Their expression shifts to pleased so smoothly that the previous anger must have been a figment of his imagination. Nerves, or something. He's still finding his spacelegs, after all. But nevertheless, Kraglin can't shake the niggling itch that if he's offended them, he's liable to regret it.

"Alright," they say, rubbing their hands. The piercings between their fingers scrape like sandpaper. The bandage peels up; Kraglin catches a glimpse of flesh swollen in a tight, swollen pucker around a flaking stud. "I've got what I came for. My money's on a week."

"A week?" Kraglin wishes his bewilderment wasn't written so clearly over his face, as Isla's smile turns vicious.

"Or p'raps twenty four hours." They give him a hearty pat on the shoulder – the strings cut into the cuffs of their jacket slap like cat o'nines over his back. "Especially with the cabin I'm assigning you to. Thanks in advance, kid – you've won me a whole week's worth crate of moonshine."

"What're you talkin' about –" But with a second slap and a chuckle, Isla breaks away. They shuffle off, merging into the fluxing shadows until the light that glints from their array of silver studs and hoops is swallowed. Kraglin stares after them. His mouth works around imaginary words. _Under a week? Twenty four hours? And why shouldn't I ask folks where they're from? Ain't these people never speed-dated before?_

All he can figure for certain is that Isla might have been a tad more important than they'd come across, if they're in charge of sorting sleeping quarters. And that Kraglin's almost certainly made an enemy. Still, he ain't got time to fret. Next shift's in fifteen minutes, down in the ship's throbbing engine pit. He's still got to find his way, although he's fairly confident with the map they've coded into his wristpiece. When that's over, he's only got one more assignation before his first twelve designated duty-hours are up. He can worry about Isla's unspoken threat after that.

Sparing one last wistful look for the spiralling star-scape, Kraglin pulls up his holograph of the ship's interior, orientates himself, and starts to walk.

His legs hurt. That's the first thing he notices. But the inventory soon adds up. His back hurts too. So do his fingers, from gripping the joystick in the crappy junker craft tight enough to make his joints creak. His arms _ache_ like he's been lashed to a Skrull torture rack. He's already spent the morning hauling stock at the back of the ship, after scouting out that hefty red-coated fella with the metal eye – Thrabba? – in the station bar and selling himself to him as an able-bodied recruit with experience in matters not-quite-legal, willing to do anything and everything to pull his weight but who really, _really_ couldn't be out on the docks. For certain reasons. Reasons which involved the gang of armed thugs patrolling each bay with his picture in their bounty-books. And before _that_ , he'd been cramped up for three days in a tiny spherical junkship, the smallest and most unobtrusive craft he could afford. His muscles feel like they've atrophied to the shape of the pilot's seat.

All in all, it's been a busy week. It's alright now though, Kraglin tells himself. All of that's over. He made it. He's gonna be fine.

He survived the auction-gone-wrong. He went on, against all odds, to survive the kamikaze-run through the checkpoint stockade, and the first wave of the manhunt that the Cartel have put out in his name. Living with a gang of Ravagers can't possibly trump all of that on the leaderboard for the worst time of his life. And it ain't like this situation is _permanent_ or nothing, either. Nope. Kraglin's just here for the short-haul. In again, out again, ready to pop off at a space port and make his own way as soon as there's a dozen-or-so quadrants between him and his pursuers.

Sufficiently reassured, Kraglin gives his map a quick swivel and follows the flashing beacon that guides him forwards.

* * *

 **Will update on Saturdays (and sometimes Wednesdays)! Please drop me a comment if you liked it~ x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sup peeps – here's the next chappie~ Still world-building. I love to explore the Ravager ship!**

* * *

"Oi. Fresh meat. What's your name?"

That's the first thing the overseer asks. He's burly, whiskered; of a height with Thrabba and certainly wider across the gut. The heat from the engine processors has made his beefy face red, and his beard is matted with sweat. Kraglin, surprised at being singled from the cast of surly labourers, pauses in his efforts to clamp a dribbling fuel valve.

"Uh. It's, um – "

The man cuts him off. "Save it. Nobody gives a shit." Kraglin's vocal chords abort, although his lips are a bit slow on the uptake and continue to mouth out the syllables of his name. The overseer sneers like he smells something dirty – which considering the state of them all, he probably does. Kraglin doubts anyone in the room's seen a shower for a fortnight, himself included. "Now put your fucking back into it," comes the order. "You ain't on no pansy Nova planet no more."

Now _that_ makes him bristle.

Nova-governed it might be, but Hrax is _far_ from a pansy place. It ain't _Xandar,_ that's for sure. Kraglin's tempted to practice his clan's traditional spine-ripping technique on this guy, just in case anyone requires solid proof. This isn't the ghettos though. You can't vanish into the throng if you kill someone important (or blast off on the next offworld ship, as the case may be…) No – here he's confined. Restricted to four walls, a lot of scrambly corridors that ignore all logic and don't feature anywhere on his map no matter how many angles he rotates it through, and the endless vacuum-void beyond.

There's an _order_ to things here. A _hierarchy_. Kraglin hasn't worked with one of those before – always been iffy of 'em in fact; growing up dirt-poor on a Nova planet will do that to you. He's certainly not keen on playing along now. But there's not much in the way of alternative options: it's this or the airlock.

Forcing a smile, he braces his boots on the sharp metal grills and _heaves._

The valve mouth screeches in another millimetre. There's a wheeze as the pressure shifts, then a bubble bursts from the narrowed entrance, spattering Kraglin's leathers with hot fuel. The droplets eat away at the material before fizzling to smoke. When Kraglin looks down, it's with trepidation; he expects to see patches of scalded skin beneath. But there's nothing more than a new collection of scars over his jacket's worn hide.

"Huh," he says. Perhaps he is a little grateful for being pushed into a uniform. Even if it reeks of the last occupant's halitosis.

Looming overhead, the overseer huffs – Kraglin assumes it's in approval – and marches off to find someone less productive to harass. Kraglin leans his sweating forehead against the wrench. Just briefly. Long enough to inhale the noxious fumes leaking from his pipe; compared to the rest of the room, they come as a relief.

A dozen quadrants between him and his new life? If he doesn't get access to a wash-basin in the next three days, he's cutting it to half, Cartel bounty hunters be damned.

* * *

Canteen's a noisy affair, which Kraglin don't mind, and a crushing one, which he does. He's packed between two rowdy huddles of Ravagers. Each are wildly gesticulating, and Kraglin has already accrued a bust lip and several bruises to his ribs. The Ravagers don't notice. If they do, they don't care. Kraglin rubs mournfully at the split swelling under his philtrum, and supposes he'll have to get used to it. Ravagers seem like the sort to give each other black eyes in casual greeting.

On cue, a Ravager from way back in the milling crowd spots someone he knows in the gaggle to Kraglin's front, and enthusiastically ploughs to join them. He barges Kraglin out of his path as he goes. Kraglin shoves back – of course he does.

"Oi, watch it!" …And then regrets it, as he meets eyes slitted like a lizards' and a teeth that are bigger than his but just as sharp. A set of knuckles are cracked in front of his face, set into a fist approximately the size of his head. "Or continue. Y'know, either way."

" _You_ watch it, greenie," the creature sneers. Kraglin's never seen someone like him (and never wants to again). He assumes he's from an outworld, a planet unaffiliated with the Nova Empire – although he remembers Isla's advice and doesn't ask. _Dangerous_ , warns the little voice in the back of his mind: the one he actually listens to on occasion. _Savage_.

This is one of those occasions.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Kraglin's eyes swim as they try to focus on the nearest knuckle. He shrinks away like a shrivelling cock. Lizard-guy, sensing weakness, looms closer. The amount of teeth visible between his scaly lips multiplies to a degree that is frankly disturbing. Holding his breath, Kraglin prepares for a painful death. Then cracks open an eye, as a voice speaks up from behind his assailant –

"Oi, careful. Horuz bet on this hour."

Whatever that means. Still, it makes lizard-guy pause. Kraglin watches through squinted, untrusting eyes as he considers, then blows out air in a cold huff that has hairs springing to attention all along his neck.

"Damn," Lizard-guy says, sounding nearly humanoid for a second. "Well, I ain't letting that fucker win, that's for sure."

Kraglin has the oddest sensation of being the centrepiece of the conversation while also being ignored. Lizard-guy steps in front of him, blocking his view of the rest of the circle with an expanse of leather-clad back. He's got slits cut into the coat, Kraglin notices, through which his hide can be seen. Each bark-like scale is larger than the entire pad of Kraglin's thumb. In fact, all of their uniforms seem to have been customized. Kraglin glances around the hall, trying to be unobtrusive while keeping an ear on the conversation. Yes – everyone's done _something_ to single themselves out from the mass of dark red leather. An extra strap here. A patch stitched there. Ribbing down the arms or a stiff-starched collar. Kraglin considers his own leathers, woefully unadorned. Perhaps that's why everyone knows he's green.

"That was – what, the lowest bet?" lizard-guy continues. One of his friends shakes her shaved head and hisses out a laugh.

"Nah. Udonta reckoned he wouldn't survive first shift."

Kraglin frowns. This whole betting business suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. Laughing, lizard-guy rocks on his heels and lets out a low whistle. "Harsh."

Harsh indeed. Kraglin's fists clench.

They're betting on his life, and some jackass didn't think he could last four fucking hours?

He doesn't have the chance to be more affronted though – or to nurture grudges against Isla and this mysterious Horuz fellow, for setting his death-date respectively at twenty-four hours and nine. The queue's been shuffling at a zombie-pace while he's been distracted, and he finds himself in front of a corrugated iron hatch that tips the end of a chute like a blunt-edged fingernail.

 _Clunk_ , sounds from his right. Then again – _clunk, clunk, clunk_. All along the line, hatches shoot open and bowls of something that looks like mashed draov eggs comes skidding out. One crashes to stop with a slop against Kraglin's belt. He grimaces at it. But it ain't likely to get more appetising with time, and the bellow of 'get a move on, rookie!' spurs him to grab a fork from the unit besides and scramble to find an unoccupied piece of wall to lean on, head tucked low to his chest.

He can feel people looking at him.

After a childhood of petty pickpocketing, reliant on one's ability to saunter past a Nova patrol without attracting suspicion, that's not the most assuring sensation. He wonders if they're waiting to see him drop dead, and _then_ wonders if this Horuz chap would be willing to poison his meal to ensure victory. But if he starts thinking like that, he ain't gonna be able to stop. A month on board's already looking like hell warmed over. Kraglin can't face adding a hunger strike to his torments. And so, he shovels down his eggs in five bites, pulling a face as they slither past his oesophagus. He waits a minute, just to be sure – but there's no telltale acidic ache as his stomach digests itself. Horuz ain't winning this one.

Kraglin dumps his bowl into the washing chute, and goes to find somewhere he can piss in peace.

* * *

 **Ah, lizard-guy; drawn straight from a particularly creepy nightmare of mine. And That Jackass, of course... Drop a review if ya liked it. x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey everybody – here's this week's updates! We're getting past the world-building. Finally. You'll recognise the OC if you follow me on AO3…**

* * *

His next shift is labelled simply as 'scrubbing'.

There's no designated placement, and no name to comm neither. So Kraglin sets off aimlessly through the labyrinth of corridors and crawl-ways, trying to commit some of them to memory. In fact, he's so focussed on where he's going that when he stumbles over someone who's not in a hurry to get somewhere else, it's quite literal.

His victim's a girl, skin obnoxious Xandarian pink. She's on all fours, face twisted up and muttering to herself as she attacks a boot scuff with an ineffectually soft scrubbing brush. Kraglin's foot hooks her calf. He goes down like a blown-out Nova ship. His face cracks neatly onto the spot the girl had been working on, but as he topples, she manages to wreak vengeance by clocking him on the temple with her brush.

"Fuck!" Kraglin clutches his skull like he's trying to hold it together, unsure which part hurts most. "Ow!"

"Ow!" counters the girl right back. Then she actually looks at him, and the brewing fight slumps out of her. "Watch where you're goin', greenie."

That's… new.

Surprised that his presence is inciting mere irritation, as opposed to out-and-out animosity, Kraglin stays where he is instead of shuffling away – or at least, he does until the girl lifts the scrub brush and menaces his other ear. "The fuck you tryin' ta do? Cop a feel?"

Kraglin doesn't dare leer and prove her right. He scrambles backwards like she's leaking radiation. "No. No! Sorry."

The girl rolls her eyes at him, bows her head, and returns doggedly to the task at hand. Bristles swirl over metal, then dunk into a bucket of water dirtier than the floor it's cleaning. The process repeats every five seconds or so – _skrrsh, splt, skrrsh, splt_ – regular as a nodding donkey. Kraglin inches closer. "Um. What you doin', anyway?"

"What's it look like."

That… doesn't sound like a question he's supposed to answer. More rhetorical-like, really. Kraglin swallows, prays his reflexes are fast enough to save him from the grotty scrub brush that will no doubt end up being flung at his head, and answers anyway.

"Well, it _looks_ like you're scrubbin'. And y'see, the thing is, I _should_ be scrubbin' too, but I don't really know what to do or where to get the stuff –" His monologue's snipped by a grunt and an aggrieved heave of the girl's shoulders. She waves her brush – Kraglin flinches – towards an open panel, which cuts a midnight wedge into the rust-red wall.

"Cleaning crap's in there. Get yourself a mop or summin', and check yer map for where's flagged up. Just make sure ya bring it back to this floor, or the guy checking supplies next shift'll get pissy."

"'Kay…" Kraglin moves to the panel, and squints inside. The cupboard's deeper than he expected, cut into the sloped wall until it meets the flank of the next hall over, and edged with flaky piping. He'd probably be able to wriggle his torso inside if he tried hard enough, the rest of him at a push. As it is, he need only slot in an arm and grope to locate the handle of a droopy-headed mop that's taller than he is. "Right," he says. Then, in hope – "So, you don't need any help here then?"

"No," says the girl shortly. She scrubs harder. Kraglin imagines her wearing through scuff and floor and out the other side. "I'm only here because Dagada knows I'm on scrub-duty now. A-hole put this here himself, I'll bet." Her voice isn't so much vehement as _venomous_. Kraglin studies the way she sneers at the dirt-patch she's working on, and decides that she must be replacing it with this Dagada-character's face. Motivation, he supposes. Whatever works.

Propping his mop in the chink between two uneven grills, Kraglin leans on it and swivels to appraise the tunnel in all its dank and dusty glory. "Y'know, I honestly don't think anyone'd notice if ya slacked off. This place ain't exactly a Nova barracks, if you get my drift."

Panting, the girl pushes back a hank of sweat-darkened purple hair. She aims her scowl at him instead. "Dagada would. First you barge into me, now you're tryin' ta get me in shit with the bo'sun? The fuck do you think you are?" Kraglin pales. The harsh lines of the girl's face soften. "Aw heck," she grumbles. "You're just a greenie with a mouth on ya. You don't know how all this works. Ain't no point being mad at you."

"You seem to be the only one who thinks so," Kraglin tells her. That wins a whipcrack of a laugh. She dabbles the tips of her brush-bristles, then slaps them over the scuff hard enough to propel water drops at Kraglin's bootcaps.

"There ain't nobody on this crew who made friends on their first day, greenie. Don't bust an eyeball over it." _Shrrk, shrrk, shrrk, splat_. Scrub-girl gives her tool a more thorough drenching, and continues to scour the floor like she's buffing it to a mirror. At least she's louring at it and not him. "They'll warm up. If you survive the first month, they'll ask yer name. Watch that gob of yours for the next five, and they might start to like ya."

Which reminds him.

Kraglin dithers over sharing the tale – this girl seems marginally nicer than the rest, or at least, marginally less likely to haul his ass out an airlock for making an honest mistake (admittedly, experience up to this point may have lowered his standards). And she's cute to boot. In a pink kinda way. After Isla, he doesn't feel confident in asking any questions of his own – so he might as well say something of himself, and see what comes out of it. Heck, perhaps she'll find it as amusing as lizard-guy and his friends.

"They've started a betting pool about me, y'know."

"Yeah, I know." The splash and splat of her brush drowns out Kraglin's disappointment. "They do that every now and again, when someone joins from Xandar territory. Most folks like that think far too much of themselves to survive long." She snickers under her breath. "Picked you off one of them posh ports too, so you're less likely to last than most."

Well, _that's_ just gross misinformation. Offended, Kraglin crosses his arms. "Oi, I might've come aboard at that naffy place, but I weren't native or nothing. I'm Hraxian. Born and bred."

"And I don't give a shit." Of course she doesn't. Kraglin slumps. "Hey, y'know what the bets are? I might get in on 'em this time."

Suddenly, this whole thing – this assfuck of a day, the casual banter over when he's going to die; heck, this whole crazy, _stupid_ plan that he'd cobbled together on the spur of the moment, when he'd spotted a swarm of red-clad outlaws flooding the dock and had decided that once he'd joined a fucking _space pirate crew_ everything would be miraculously _better_ – it's all too much.

"Thank you," says Kraglin. He wrestles his mop free of the metal crevasse and settles it crossly over one shoulder like a soldier's bayonet, glowering at her leather clad back. "Thank you, very fuckin' much."

He means to march off there and then. But the girl glances up, fringe flopping, and grins. "Hey c'mon. I'd give ya at least a fortnight, greenie."

It's… it's better than anything he's gotten so far.

Anger evaporates as Kraglin sighs. He squeezes the tension from his nose bridge with the hand not stabilising the mop; the throb in his temple has waned, but only because it's been subsumed by the pressure behind his eyeballs. He's tired. He's worn. He feels like a man who's been chased halfway across the quadrant for the sake of some dumb, fake _necklace_ and one little bullet that had gone awry. The canteen eggs sit like melted lead in his stomach, and all he wants is to drop into a soft, warm bed.

This must be serious. He ain't never _had_ a soft warm bed before, and he doubts that'll change tonight.

"Isla said I'd last the night," he says pathetically. "And someone called Horuz gave me most of today – until dinner, at least." The girl's passes of the brush continue. But they slow considerably, and she tilts her head, lips pursed.

"Interesting."

Kraglin's not done yet though. He paces the corridor lengthways, side-to-side. The bundle of rags that suffice for a mop-head thwack on the light panels every time he turns, and he's got the staff clenched so hard that he can hear the plastic grains creak. "But this one guy… He's called, uh, Odontu, or something? He didn't think I'd make _four hours._ " He lets the words hang. For some reason, the girl doesn't seem especially surprised. In fact, she snorts and ducks her head once again. Kraglin tacks on a desperate "Can you believe it?"

Because heck, that prediction is ridiculous, right? How many Ravagers recruits kick the bucket in the first four hours? And what about Kraglin suggests that he might be one of them?

The mop smears the central ceiling strut in his agitation. Scrub-girl glances up and groans. "Calm yer tits, Mohawk-boy. That's Yondu's idea of a joke." A pause. "I think."

Kraglin laughs, a little higher than usual. "That's _really reassuring._ "

"Look, just…" She waves the brush wordlessly for a moment, then verbalises her frustration with a drawn-out, aggravated hiss. "Get yer map out, would ya?"

He's got nothing else to do. Kraglin obeys. He sees, to his surprise, that the usual schematics, red-brown: the colour of arterial Hraxian blood, are now smattered through with flashing yellow dots. "There," Scrub-girl says. "Beacons. Folks'll flag up where there's been a spill, or whatnot. They pop up on your chart there. You go clean 'em. Simple, right?" Simpler than anything else he's encountered today. He must look haggard, because Scrub-girl sighs at him and doesn't bother to toss in a last freebie insult as she shoos him on. "Go clean somethin'. Whatever it is that's buggin' you… Well, it ain't gonna make it better. But it might take your mind off it, and that's something, right?"

Something indeed. Kraglin checks the map again, isolating the nearest (he thinks) blip, wich is located in a network of ladders between this floor and the one above. He pauses before he reaches the corner.

"So, no one's gonna ask after my name before I've survived a month?" Scrub-girl nods. Kraglin clears his throat, and rubs the rough plastic of the mop handle over the back of his neck, in absence of a hand. "Um… is it alright if I ask for yours?"

He's once again subjected to that wary appraisal. Then the Xandarian nods. "Morlug," she says.

It's better than 'Scrub-girl'. Kraglin smiles. "Nice t'meetcha, Morlug."

"Likewise, greenie. Now fuck off."

He snaps to a saucy salute, mop slapping on the light – "Yes, ma'am." And off he fucks.

Behind him, the brush scrapes away. The furious scritching eats at his eardrums until he's well round the corridor and away.

* * *

He's halfway through wiping up his seventh spillage of the shift – this a familiar shade of draov egg orange, albeit with a semi-digested texture and a lingering bile-sour aroma; apparently some folks didn't like their dinner – when it happens.

There's a burst of holographic light. That's enough to startle him. Then the chronometer strapped around his wrist blares like a Kree raid siren. Kraglin jumps, banging his head on the low doorframe, and stumbles cussing against the airlock. He almost avoids standing in the mess. Once he's ascertained that they're not under attack, that the ship isn't violently depressurizing and that he hasn't banged the self-destruct button with his stupid oversized mop-handle (the novelty of which wore off sometime between the sixth and seventh compensation-joke) he forces himself to breathe, and locates the source of the infernal noise.

His wristpiece is flashing. The words _night_ and _cycle_ scroll intermittently over the pixelated surface. Kraglin stares at the words until they sink into the tired, porous mass that he once called a brain. Then goggles.

"Shit."

Because the room icon flashing next to the digits reading time and astral-date? That's not the one Thrabba'd assigned him. _Isla_. Double shit.

What was it he'd been told? Once his night-cycle alarm goes off, he's got eight hours to find his designated cabin and bunk. Then he can start catching up on all the sleep he's lost since fleeing the Cartel.

It's long overdue – he can feel the pains and twinges of a manual day's work settling atop of his previous aches, and knows he's going to be stiff in the morning. Second proper day tomorrow too, and he doesn't doubt it'll be a busy one. Kraglin pictures a warm blanket settling over him, pulled up to his chin, and a pillow so big he can bury beneath it and block out the world. Honestly, what's he waiting for? Sure, Isla had bet for twenty-four hours. But Kraglin figures he can deal with any of the more volatile crewmembers Isla throws at him and still come up kicking. He's been practicing his spine-trick, after all.

And really, how bad can cabinmates be?

* * *

 **Drop me a comment if you liked it~ xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Yondu's sleepy-talk is based off my mum when she's drunk.**

* * *

His bunk is number thirteen.

Kraglin has the sense to double-check, though his eyes are hot and prickly and he can't stop yawning. Stress fucks up your sleep-schedule, and the stress of running for your life does so like nothing else. Being given eight hours in which his orders amount to nothing more than 'rest' has made his body kick into hibernation mode. But there it is – plain as day. _Block D4, bunk n#13_. Kraglin locates the correct bed, which is part of a stack of five cots that look as narrow as his prison bed and about as comfortable. Then he climbs the ladder, and all but falls into its stiff-mattress'd embrace.

Finally – _finally_ – he shuts his eyes.

And opens them again, approximately four hours later, when the telltale creak of the ladder is the only warning he gets before a body (or possibly, an entire M-ship) crashes down on top of him.

"Th'fuck's th's -?" someone complains, words slurred into one. "If thas you, Varra, I'mma put m'fuckin arrow inyer guts…"

That's as far as they get.

Kraglin, remembering only that he's wanted alive but preferably dead by the biggest crime syndicate on Hrax, flails awake with a holler and starts swinging.

His punches connect. There's an 'oof' as he finds the guy's stomach, and another as he socks him in the jaw. His attacker flails back, saved from being flung off the bed only by the smack of his skull against the ladder. The sound isn't what Kraglin's expecting. It's… _dull_ somehow. Like metal struck plastic instead of bone. Still, the attacker's reaction is fitting. Knees brush Kraglin's stomach as the guy curls up, head tucked to his chest and cradled between big blue hands.

"F'ckin hell," he moans.

Now that the assassination attempt has been successfully averted, Kraglin's adrenaline dips enough to let sense swim back. With it comes the realisation that the Kree guy he's just assaulted doesn't look especially assassination-inclined. And that he has a familiar coat, bundled at his feet and kicked to the cot's far end. A Ravager-red coat. One that's… noticeably bloodstained.

Kraglin gulps. All his self-imposed rules about _toeing the line_ and _keeping his head down_ until he finds a nice, quiet little satellite to jump ship flush down the pan, whirling into the infinite cosmos like shit from a primitive ship that ain't yet developed matter converters. This is the cell on Hrax all over again. Only worse – so much worse. Because this time, he's actually done something to _warrant_ a shanking.

The only consolation is that the other man seems as surprised as he is. An arm uncurls from over his forehead, and Kraglin finds himself the target of a baleful red eye. "Who th'fuck're you?" asks his uninvited bedmate. Kraglin's swallow sticks to the inside of his throat.

"I'm, uh, not supposed to tell ya my name," he edges out. "Not for a month, they said."

He gets an uncomprehending blink for his troubles. And – hell, is it just him, or does this guy look tired? Like, _seriously_ tired? The bags beneath his eyes would make decent hanger bays.

Comprehension dawns in a sluggish burst. "Y'rth'greenie. Y'ain't dead yet?"

Kraglin tries for a nervous smile. "That's me. And I'm still kicking. Sorry t'disappoint." The smile isn't returned. Kraglin's fingers start picking at the edge of the pillow. "Um. I'm sorry?" he tries. "About, y'know." A wave of the hand, to encompass whatever blunt head trauma he inflicted while half-in the land of nod.

"Shut the fuck up," groans someone from the bunk above, but Kraglin isn't interested in them.

The red eye narrows. "Had worse."

Kraglin believes it. What little skin that isn't hidden beneath the guy's polo neck is sprinkled with scar tissue. Fella looks like he's been fed through a rocket engine backwards. He spies red beneath the remaining protective hand, and thinks for one awful moment it's blood: that he's cracked him open and his brains are leaking out onto the pillowcase. He doesn't know how Ravagers handle those who kill their own – whether they laugh it off, or if there's punishment in store. But he sure hopes this guy doesn't have anyone who'll miss him.

Then the fingers uncurl slightly, and Kraglin sees that what he'd thought was scrambled, bloody grey-matter is in fact a crystal implant, driven like a chisel into the man's crown. And remembers that Kree bleed blue, anyways. He relaxes. Not a murderer today.

Then abruptly tenses as the Kree-guy starts talking again, still in his rasping slur. "Th'fuck're you doin in m'bed, greenie?"

"Your bed?" Kraglin shakes his head, and holds up his watch. "It's mine – look, says so, right here."

They consider the flashing digits together. Kree-guy is the one to state the obvious. "Sez yurrin C-block."

Kraglin clicks the watch off and pinches his nose again. "I can see that."

"This's D."

"I'm aware."

A pause.

"Th'fuck're you doin' in m'bed?"

…And they're back to where they started. The man, if possible, sounds more pissed than before. Kraglin holds up his hands, closes his eyes until he feels ready to face this situation, and attempts an explanation. "There's this… this person. Lotsa piercings. Calls themselves Isla."

"F'ckin Isla," grumbles Kree guy. At least they agree on one thing.

"Right. So, they – xir?"

A tired huff. "She."

"She did somethin' to my schedule. I pissed her off, I think. I…" Perhaps mentioning how said pissing-off occurred isn't the wisest idea? Isla's sensitivity about her homeplanet, wherever it may be, might not be something she wants to share. Kraglin snaps his mouth shut, and finishes with an anticlimactic shrug. "So, well… Here I am."

There's no answer from Kree guy. There is, however, a drawn out groan from one of the bunks opposite. It's echoed by the person above, who tosses something that rebounds off the bedpost with a boot-like thunk. "For the love of God… Shut up…"

Kree-guy's expression sours so fast Kraglin almost dives for cover. "You shuddup, Varra!" he roars. Then, after listening a second to ensure that the shocked silence remains that way, spits out a series of unintelligible lizard-like clicks and collapses face-first, hard enough to make the springs creak.

There's no retaliation from the bunk above. That can't be good – for the Kree or him. And hell, after today, Kraglin doesn't want to be making any more enemies than he already has.

He curls up where he sits, plastering himself back against the wall. His baggy socks crimp Kree-guy's thigh. "D'you think you could budge over?" he whispers. "I can git out, if ya climb down first…" The look on Kree guy's face informs him that he's just committed a breach of etiquette equivalent to asking for seconds at a Xandarian banquet. Kraglin backs down. "Or, or you could just… stay there. Yup. Sounds good."

"Shuddup, m'sleepy." Kree guy rolls onto his side, treating Kraglin to a waft of B.O. Those freaky eyes slip closed. "I'll kill Isla n'the mornin'," he mumbles. "An' if y'fuckin' wake me up, I'll whistle."

Whatever that means.

There's no time to ask though. Kree guy steals all the blankets, rolls the pillow to his side of the bed – blocking off the last conceivable escape route between the ladder and the bedpost. Then he puts his scarred head down and promptly starts snoring.

Kraglin stares at him. Then at the chronometer, which is informing him that he only has four hours left before his next shift. "Fuck," he says.

* * *

 **So, we finally have a meeting! And of course, it's gone terribly. Tune in on Saturday for how Kraglin worms his way out of this one.**

 **Drop me a comment if you enjoyed? :) They mean the world to me.**


	5. Chapter 5

**In which Kraglin makes some new friends, the bo'sun is a dick, and that mysterious Udonta guy remains a jackass.**

* * *

The next morning isn't as dire as Kraglin expects. Although it does come close.

He'd drifted into an uneasy doze, back tight to the wall in an effort to touch as little of the Kree guy as possible. Thankfully whoever Isla has seen fit to victimize in her game is the only person onboard more tired-looking than Kraglin himself, and he sleeps deeper than a corpse that's been swaddled in breeze-blocks and sent to the bottom of an ice lake. Kraglin stops wincing every time Varra rearranges himself: an action which ricochets through the bunk stack's rickety frame. He even lets himself relax. Just a little.

Sure, he'd rather Isla had chosen Morlug's bunk. But he hasn't been butchered – or whistled at – which counts as a victory on his end.

Ha. She'll never collect on that bet now.

Enthused by his foiling of her plot, Kraglin allows himself a little fist-pump as he starts to plan his escape. Isla's not making money off _his_ untimely demise, not today. Horuz neither. And as for Yondu Udonta, well… Fuck that jackass. Kraglin'll show 'em all.

But for now, he's only got half an hour before his morning shift, and if he wants to grab a shower and take a shit, he's got to devise a way to extract himself from behind the wall of passed-out Kree. Kraglin spares a moment to check the guy's unconscious face. It's lax. The snores have petered out – thank god – and now he's drooling on his bicep, snuffling quietly on the exhale.

Kraglin is, for one utterly absurd second, tempted to poke him. Then he remembers that he's not suicidal, and resists.

He's debating whether he dares to shove the Kree guy's legs off the bed and make a dive for it, when a head pops down to fill the dark space between mattress and bunk above.

"Greenie?" someone whispers, voice hoarse.

Kraglin perks, leaning forwards as best he can. Then jerks back again when he brushes the Kree's upturned shoulder. Kree guy mumbles some more of those weird clicks into the pillow, fingers curling, but doesn't rouse. Kraglin slowly settles into his nest. "Varra?" he tries. Was that the guy's name?

There's an affirmative hum. "Wanna get outta there, greenie? They give 'im twelve hours after he's done a solo, and he ain't gonna move for at least that." Varra chuckles. "And trust me, ya don't wanna be around if the captain decides to come wake him herself."

 _The captain_. Kraglin hasn't met her yet – thank fuck – but the mere mention of the title's enough to have his bladder shivering. Which in turn, reminds him of the other reason he so desperately needs liberation from his Kree-walled cell. "Think you could help me?" he asks. Varra's head, silhouetted against the faint light streaming from under the dormitory door, nods. The only part of him Kraglin can make out is the eerie white of his grin.

"Feel up – above your head. Yeah. Thassit. Alright, you got a hold of them bars?" Kraglin nods, not liking where this is going. "They'll take your weight." Varra must have better night-vision than him, because he catches Kraglin's frown and husks out a laugh. "Seriously. If they take mine, they'll take yours. Not that there's much to take." Another laugh. Kraglin forces a smile. "Shit, greenie, we gotta feed ya up! I betcha hear that a lot, don'tcha?"

Kraglin's smile strains valiantly wider. "Yeah. Could you be a bit quieter?"

Varra's hands appear, flapping in dismissal. "He's out. Quit worryin', greenie." From what he can see of the guy, Kraglin can understand that a six metre headfirst plummet might be something he can scoff off. He braces himself to watch the big guy slither forwards. But Varra doesn't slip an inch, despite the apparent absence of any grip and the fact that he's dangling from the waist down. "C'mon," he hisses, beckoning Kraglin with both hands. "You wanna get to the bathroom before Figs takes her turn."

"I heard that!" growls a woman from the bunk below. Kraglin peers through the crack and glimpses green scales and crazy blonde hair. Skrull-cross, and with a dandelion by all appearances.

"Are you guys on shift now too?" he asks, voice at its lowest register as he takes careful hold of the bunk's slatted underside. His fingers already ache from the weight of the mattress – he realises that Varra must be balanced over the sidebar, feet braced against the far bedposts to stop himself falling. Thank fuck. If his bulk was pressing down on him too, Kraglin could bid goodbye to his metacarples.

The slice of Figs's face visible through the gap scrunches, as she squints at the slice of his own. "You, me, and the rest of our bunk-stack. Except sleepin' beauty there. Now come the fuck on – me an' Varra're holdin' us steady so you won't go rattling off the walls."

It's ridiculous. One day and one night on this godawful ship, and Kraglin's ready to kiss their boots at this small show of kindness.

Giving the bars a final test – they squeak at the rivets – he nods to Varra, who hoists his massive trunk out of his line of escape. Then he draws a deep breath, and pushes gently off the wall. It's one of the rare times he's grateful he came out such a skinny bugger; it'd be hard as heck to hoist himself along otherwise. A tuck of his feet, a nerve-racking groan from the bedframe (and an even more nerve-racking one from the occupant) and Kraglin lifts parallel to the mattress, his abdomen sucked tight. He keeps his legs curled, and inches from rung to rung on aching fingers until he can drop with a wheeze on the bar at the far side of the sleeping Kree. He props his forehead against the chilly slats of Varra's bunk, shooting him a silent thanks, which Varra waves off.

"Hurry it up, greenie," urges Figs from below. "You got five seconds to get past my bunk before I call dibs on bathroom. You too, Varra." Varra swears, sitting bolt-upright, and bypasses the ladder completely in favour of rolling over the side of the bunk and flipping to the floor to retrieve his lost boot. Whoever's in the top bed tosses another to bounce off his head. It does minimal damage – mostly because it's ten sizes smaller than the one on Varra's foot. Scrambling down the ladder, Kraglin peers at him in awe.

"Damn, you're big."

Varra's shrug is carefree. "High-gravity planet." He's not Kronan, and there's no other HG-systems under Nova reign. He must be another outworlder – although compared to Lizard Guy, Varra's practically an Adonis. Kraglin's eyes widen.

"Cool!"

"Five, four, three, two, one," says Figs irritably. She pushes over her bar to land light as a cat besides the thin-toed pair of boots Kraglin assumes belong to her. "Snap, snap, fuckers. Time's a-ticking, and I'm feelin' _eggy_ after last night."

There's a panicked flurry of blankets from bunks top and bottom alike, the Kree guy a motionless blue filler in their sandwich. Kraglin doesn't stick around to see who emerges – he's hopping after Varra for the washblock at the dormitory's far end, whispering apologies to the night-cycling Ravagers who lift middle fingers at them as they pass, and trying to tie up his boots while navigating a pitch-black room and remaining vaguely vertical. Start of the second day, and he's not dead yet. At least he's gonna get better at multitasking, he figures.

* * *

And he is – getting better at multitasking, that is. And it's a damn good thing.

After squeezing out a shit and ducking his head under the leaky shower nozzle long enough to sluice off the toppermost layer of sweat and grime, Kraglin trudges on towards his next shift – M-ship upkeep – stopping off at the canteen halfway to grab a sticky breakfast bowl. It's oats and something, miscellaneous. Probably best to keep it that way.

From what he can tell, M-ships get gifted or sold to the more senior Ravagers after they've proved they can handle themselves solo. It's a status sign as well as a functional reward – once an M-ship goes to a Ravager, repair and fuelling's their responsibility, rather than that of the Ravagers-in-training. For now, Kraglin's half-buried amid dinged fuel canisters and pistons still scalding to the touch, puzzling out how an M-ship's engine operates from the manual he's got open on his wristpiece. He pities whichever poor sod has to fly this thing after he's through with it. Perhaps, if he fucks up bad enough and it explodes before it's left the hanger, he'll get pulled off the repairs shift.

And put on scrub indefinitely.

Yeah, he only plans on being here… what? Six weeks, at the most. But that's still a sobering thought. Kraglin swipes an oil-blackened finger through the hologram. The light particles fizzle and flip, and he's presented with a bird's eye that _almost_ matches the one in front of him. Who knows? This could be a productive experience. He could learn something. Might even get to pilot one of these things – he's dismantled the drive shaft, and while he hasn't the first clue how to put it together again, he's been able to determine that it operates similarly to the junkship he'd stolen for his grand escape. Put a baby like this in his hands, and he'll make it turn _loops_.

He finds the nut he'd dropped: under a coolant nodule, which, from the crystallised dry-ice crackling across its surface, has sprung a leak. Excellent. He just prays his jacket's as impervious to the cold as it is to heat. And air. And his sweat – which has started to form a second insulatory layer between the leather and his skin.

It's not the most comfortable of positions – torso immersed in the engine pod while his long legs kick out behind. What sparse fat that covers his belly is being sliced into by the pod's angled lip. If he wants to fix that nodule he's going to have to crawl in further, head-first, and pray that someone'll be around to grab his ankles and haul him out again once he's finished. Deciding he deserves a breath of fresh air before his dive – fresh-ish: air that's not so thick with fuel fumes that he might as well be breathing through an exhaust pipe – Kraglin steadies himself on the pod's sides and unwedges his head and shoulders.

That's when he sees Morlug. Girl's clambering down the ladder out of one of the flashier M-ships, her purple hair blotchy with engine grease. The ship's one of the personalized ones, strapped ten metres up in a sturdy harness, its hood magnetized to the docking bay above. Orange flames pour abundantly from its engines – thankfully, only of paint. Whoever its owner is (and they're high-ranking, if it's docked next to the ship with all the dings and dents that Varra had pointed out as belonging to the first mate) they've either got a sick sense of humour or a deathwish.

Morlug, who's hopped off the last rung of the ladder with a bucket of cleaning equipment clunking at her waist, answers that question for him. She stomps across to the man who Kraglin'd assumed was supervising, and tosses a dirty rag in his face.

"Fuck you," she hisses. "You spilt that shit everywhere just so I'd have to clean it up, didn't ya? What if it had leaked through yer circuits? Coulda fritzed you in take-off, done us all a favour!"

The guy she's talking to has his back to Kraglin. They're a far way off – he only recognises Morlug from the hair. But he can tell that he's wearing a sleeveless jacket. Is he too important to be working engines or repairs? Or is his skin tougher than the dipped leather that's gotten Kraglin through his first few chemical spills?

…And are those flame tattoos, etched up his biceps?

Kraglin scoffs. He matches his M-ship. What a tool.

His theory's confirmed when the guy pats Morlug condescendingly on the head, relieves her of her bucket, and pulls up a chart of work-shifts. Kraglin sees the multi-coloured column that can only be Morlug's quiver to a familiar purple. Scrub. For what appears to be the next year. Kraglin swallows. That's motivation to get his head down, if nothing else is. He buries himself in the engine pod to the muffled, dulcet tones of Morlug's swearing.

Lunch follows. Kraglin dithers over waiting for Morlug. She's suspended from a winch, in turn attached to the slender metal rail that runs all the way around the flame-dude's M-ship. There's a washcloth in one hand and a bucket in the other, and she's smearing a concoction of suds and spit-gobbins over his hull. When she needs to move to the next panel, she flicks an icon on her wristpiece until the mechanism groans into life, clunking her round by degrees.

Kraglin makes to wave. Then catches a glimpse of her face, angry and aubergine, as she hoiks up another wet wadge and puts her back into spraying it over flame-dude's headlights.

"Fuckin' bo'sun," she sneers.

Kraglin could speak up. Could commiserate. Could offer to give her a hand filing the dusty space-slime out from between flame-dude – the bo'sun's – grills.

Or he could not get involved, head out on lunch-break, and pretend he never saw her.

Walking into mess congratulating himself on avoiding the bo'sun's wrath as well as the inevitable sponge-to-the-head courtesy of a grumpy Morlug, Kraglin has to pull up short so that he doesn't tread on Lizard-guy's heels. Fuck. Lizard-guy, expecting one of his angular scaly buddies, turns with a grin – then sees Kraglin and transfigures it into a cruel snicker. "You ain't dead yet?"

Kraglin peers longingly past him to the kitchen hatches. But ensuring that his skin stays over his internal organs, rather than patching lizard-guy's jacket, is the bigger priority. "Yeah," he says, aiming for pleasant and achieving a generous civil. "Guess that's Isla and Horuz out of the bet. And Udonta." Jackass. "Uh, did you…?"

Lizard-guy slits his serpentine eyes. "This hour."

"Oh." Kraglin's rearwards shuffle is not the most subtle, and is thwarted anyway by the press of hungry Ravagers behind. "Uh…"

Lizard-guy lets him sweat a long minute. Then reveals all of his jagged teeth. "Luckily for you, killing ya myself would mean I forfeit." Lucky indeed. Kraglin's weak knees rediscover their cartilage.

"That's… that's good," he says. Lizard-guy's eyes move independently, which makes for a roll both derisive and disturbing.

"Whatever, rookie."

* * *

 **Hope y'all enjoyed. As you can probably tell by now, this fic's going to be a slow build. A sloooooow build! Still, things will pick up on Wednesday... ;)**

 **Please drop me a comment if you're following this fic! I love to hear from you. Also, feel free to drop me prompts on tumblr, at lairofthebunyip or write-like-an-american. x**


	6. Chapter 6

**In which alcohol happens, more alcohol happens, and a very stupid decision is made.**

* * *

And so it continues. Day in, day out. An endless circle of offensive engine vapours and worse bog-smells, of shoves and jeers and insults and the constant, casual reminder that nobody expects him to see the end of the week, let alone a month. Kraglin refuses to be worn down. It's his eighth day. He's already proved them wrong on the first front; he'll show 'em on the other too.

So, what's changed? First and foremost: he's getting used to the bellow of 'greenie' following him up the corridor – or 'rookie', or 'fresh meat', or other variation thereof. He responds without having to think, more often than not. It's… a little unnerving. When the time comes for him to share his name, he sure hopes he still remembers it.

"Rookie!" calls Isla, on cue. "Oi, you! Rookie!"

He's splashing about in a water leak off corridor 21, G-deck, bailing the spillage into a storage tank so they waste as little as possible. Morlug snarls and swears above him, armed with a welding torch. Hearing the bawl of his temporary title, Kraglin squeezes what water he can from his Mohawk – he's under a near-on constant Niagara – and rises from his squat with a groan. He _hears_ his spine creak.

 _Only three weeks left,_ he reminds himself. _Then they'll start using your name, and you'll only be assigned scrubs if you're as dumb as Morlug and you keep talking back to the bo'sun._

One week aboard, and he's already learnt who not to mess with, if only from the tales muttered behind Morlug's cupped hands. He hasn't seen the captain yet, let alone the first-mate – heck, he's only caught the bo'sun from behind a coupla times, because he's been chewing out Morlug. Honestly, he ain't complaining. This is the plan, right? Lay low. Don't draw unnecessary attention. Stay out of trouble – just for one fucking month. Once that passes, he'll be well on his way into the fourth quadrant. A few jobs here and there, a few more credits siphoned into his meagre bank account, and he'll be able to jump ship next time they land on a suitably peaceful-looking chunk of rock. No longer than six weeks.

It is, Kraglin thinks, _perfect_.

He's so engrossed with thoughts of a quiet retirement on a bungalow satellite whose snazzy double-spaceglass windows look out onto a nebula, and which boasts a king-sized, creak-free bed, that he forgets who it is that's approaching and greets Isla with a blithe and genuine smile. Her grin, which could be described as shit-eating, takes a turn for the amused.

"You high, greenie?"

Kraglin quickly sobers, sucking his cheeks in. "No."

"Whatever. C'mon, leave this to Morlug." Morlug makes her opinion known. But the flexible steel patch she's got clenched between her teeth means that interpretation is a matter for the individual. Isla delights in ignoring her. "First mate's due back today," she tells Kraglin, stopping just outside of the waterfall. It's coming in stops and spurts now, like the hole's the nozzle of a centre-pivot irrigator, and Kraglin vindictively prays for a large wave. And that Isla's piercings rust. "S'been a big job," Isla continues, flexing her bandaged hand. "And I need someone who knows Nova patrollers to snoop planetside and scout out a bar that ain't crawling, so we can throw us a decent party."

The offer sounds… good. A chance to get off ship. Breathe non-filtered air. Kraglin's been confined to the galleon for the past four stations, and if he stays any longer he'll forget what natural light looks like. Still… If there's one thing Kraglin's learnt about Isla from their last encounter, it's that her friendliness should always be taken with a pinch of salt. Potentially, the whole damn shaker. He gives her a flat look, as Morlug cusses above him and another deluge of freezing water drenches the back of his neck.

"What's the catch."

"Catch?" Isla has the audacity to look confused. Just for a second. Then she guffaws, and Kraglin hears the rings punched into her belly jingle with the motion. "Aw, you still pissy about that thing with the beds? C'mon, greenie. S'just a joke. Learn to live a little."

"You were bettin' on my life," Kraglin reminds her. Just in case she's forgotten. Isla brushes the accusation away.

"Can ya blame us? Kid swans up while our refiller's docked out in a fancy Nova fuel bay, and asks to be given the reds? I mean, heck, how old are ya? Sixteen?"

" _Nineteen_. And I'm a Hraxian! Only reason I was on that goddam piece-o'priss station was because I was on the run from the goddam Hraxian cartel –"

Isla retaliates with a not-so-gentle boot up the backside. "Heck, you've only lasted a week, not a month. Save your sorry life story til we know yer likely to be around long enough for us t'give a shit."

Kraglin, about to launch into the whole wacky tale of laundered money, false Flengoffan diamonds, and misfiring antique pistols from the Nova's pre-plasma age (give or take a little heroic embellishment on his part) sullenly shuts his mouth. Above, there's another sputtering shower. Then a whoosh, as Morlug ignites the welder, eyes squeezed up behind her dark goggles to protect her from the glare. Kraglin, also in goggles, has to look away. Isla, without them, cackles like a hyena and wades through the puddle to give Morlug's calf a congratulatory slap.

"Not fuckin' bad, kiddo!" she crows. Morlug, who is balanced halfway up the by-now very slippery stepladder – she'd declined Kraglin's offer of a shoulderride – has to scrabble to avoid dropping the lit welder on her head. Isla continues her passage, heedless, waving as she turns the corner. "Catch ya in fifteen, rookie!"

"Crazy bitch," says Kraglin admiringly. Morlug finishes with the patch before pulling off her goggles, and treating Kraglin to a rare eyeroll that's only _half_ directed at him.

* * *

Planetside is… Not a planet.

Which is a bit of a disappointment – but Kraglin's from the biggest fuckin' metropolized terraformation in the quadrant. Hrax is the concrete jungle of the Nova galaxy; it ain't like he's going to miss the feel of grass between his toes. So he steps off the shuttle ramp after Isla, boots scraping worn grey steel, and takes a lungful of air so deep it scratches his alveoli. He's never really noticed before – what a difference there is between ship air, which is stored in a closed system with the exception of the occasional oxygen injection, then pumped and filtered through a million crumbly ventilation pipes; and satellite air, which is generated on site and dissipates whenever they turn off the artificial gravity. It's not in the taste, like you'd expect. It's in the texture. _Eclector_ air is irritant, dusty even when it doesn't look it. The fans that keep it all circulating are ancient things, their blades ribbed with rust, and sometimes you wake in the night with the coppery tang of oxidised metal lodged in the back of your throat and you can't think of why. This though… it's smooth and sweet, dripping down his windpipe like honey.

Kraglin rolls his shoulders, basking in the blue radiance of the far-off supergiant, and moans like he's jizzed for the first time in a moon-cycle. Which, given how hectic things've been lately, is a damn good estimate.

Isla, watching with undisguised merriment, barges his hip with her elbow, aiming for the nerve. "Damn, rookie! If I knew a bit of fresh-ish air'd get you so hard, I'd've dragged you planetside three stations back."

Kraglin has been victim of this particular attack enough on the ride over to know the angle to turn to so he only ends up with a bruise rather than jellified legs. "Really?" he asks, brows raising.

Because Morlug's fun to bitch with an' all. Wicked sense of humour, under all that grouch. And she's surprisingly talkative once you get her started – although he still can't convince her to hear his name. (So far she's walked away every time he's tried, which's effectively put a stop to his efforts; better to have someone who jeers 'greenie' at you every now and again, than to be on your own.) But between that and the fact that she's brushed off every one of his pick-ups, her lack of interest is clear.

Now, Kraglin's the first to admit that he's a man with needs. And he really hopes that this month of semi-segregation doesn't apply to the folks he fucks too. Yeah, Isla's short and stout and would set every damn metal detector in a Nova building blaring if she came within a mile of the place. And she's definitely… _unique_. But Kraglin's not too choosy as far as looks go, and he bets she'd be a fucking wildcat in the sack.

Isla sets his hormones to rest with a chuff of a laugh. "In yer fuckin' dreams, kid. Now get walking. We scout the whole fucking station before sundown."

* * *

In the end, Kraglin's the one to find a suitable place – a basement establishment with thick walls, no Nova snoops for three blocks around, and a suitably disinterested-looking bartender. The few locals grubbing over holocards at a darkened table take one look at his Ravager coat and make for the exit. It is, Kraglin admits as his chest puffs to fill the loose-fitted jacket, a little bit awesome.

Anyway – as a reward for his efforts, Isla bequeaths upon him a clap on the back, an offer to get him off his early shift tomorrow, and a magnanimous invitation for him to join them in their celebration. Kraglin hasn't picked up on _what_ it is they're celebrating yet – something about the first mate pulling off a big-money retrieval gig that'll earn enough for a full M-ship overhaul, and only getting shot _once_ in the process; that's the gist so far. News takes a while to filter through the ranks, and Isla's too excited about the amount of alcohol she plans on consuming to communicate in any way that resembles effective. But hey. Who's he to turn down booze and a party?

You never know. They might have a few whores hangin' around, seeing as all the Ravagers seem determined to coldcock him – that or he's even uglier up here than he was on Hrax. Or they're all already fucking each other.

Kraglin rubs his palms, cool and slick with the condensation that's beaded on the outside of his glass, and does his best not to think of Isla and Morlug frotting on the bartop.

Speaking of Morlug… He hopes she's not too mad at him for skipping out. He doubts it; first rule of Ravagers, there ain't such a thing as loyalty when you're on scrubs. If someone'd offered the same to her, she'd've tossed the welder in his face, flame and all, and fought her way to the nearest shuttle. He smirks to himself, and indulges in a long sip.

"Drinks're on Udonta," Isla had said with a wink, and at his request, pointed him to the most expensive item on the menu.

It tastes kinda crap, actually – too aromatic for his liking, like someone's blended fruit puree and black vodka then infused the whole damn thing with rosewater. Like they're trying to make perfume or some shit. But booze is booze. Party hasn't started, and Kraglin's already feeling a friendly buzz in his blood. Isla notices; next time he makes to take a gulp, she slaps her hand over the base of the flute, studs ringing off glass, and pins it to the table.

"Fuck, rookie," she seethes. "Ya really are nineteen. You wanna be passed out before they get there?"

Cheeks heating – _it's the alcohol_ , he tells himself – Kraglin pushes the glass away. "Whatever."

Isla sneers right back. "Yeah, kid. Whatever. Help me fill these shot glasses." She's been pulling them up from behind the bar over the past hour, having effectively taken things over – the manager's parked his ass on a table and is enjoying a smoke, and there's rotgut of every colour Kraglin's rods and cones can distinguish, plus a few extra, all lined up along the shelves. There's also tumblers. A _ridiculous_ amount of tumblers, fanning out across bartop, counter, and a couple of pushed-together tables besides. Kraglin gawps at them, then at her.

"I thought these were the ones we wasn't gonna use."

Isla's silver-dipped teeth glint. "You thought wrong."

"Shit. How many folks're coming?" The bar's not exactly small, and Isla's acting like she means to outfit the place for the entire fleet. Isla answers with a shrug.

"No more than fifteen. Seventeen if captain and bo'sun show up. Although they ain't been invited." It's said airily, as is everything that comes out Isla's mouth. Kraglin, however, isn't tipsy enough to forget that Isla lies with tone as easily as she does with expression. He grabs a bottle that's in his favourite shade of acid green, waits for Isla's approving nod, and pours it evenly over the nearest line of shot glasses. The smell of liquor goes from potent to overpowering.

"Captains don't need invites, I'm guessin'," he says, finishing the bottle with a shake and gesturing for the next. Isla unstoppers it with her teeth, spitting the cap to one side, and hands it over. Her mouth is smiling, but the eyes above them are bleak.

"You could say that." There's a silence, broken only by the slop of spirits. This one's orange and zesty; Kraglin ain't no connoisseur, but he can pick out the warm undertone of citrus that accompanies the alcoholic zing. He makes a mental note to go for those ones first. His musing's broken, however, as his fingers brush Isla's around the neck of the third bottle – this a deep-sea blue. "Hey, rookie?"

"Yeah?"

Isla's fingers tighten. The hoops under her knuckles screech on the glass, and when he next looks at her, her face is as serious as he's ever seen it. "The captain. If she shows… If anything _happens_ tonight… Don't you do nothing stupid."

There's no more wisdom forthcoming. Isla releases the bottle and goes back to experimenting with cocktails, swilling from one bottle and then another, spitting some into the sink and swallowing most.

"Well," Kraglin can't help but comment. "That's the worst advice I've heard in my fuckin' life."

Isla spits the next mouthful at him. He nearly splashes her in return – he has half a bottle, and thus the artillery advantage – before remembering that she can and will put him on scrub for the rest of eternity.

The rest of the six weeks he has remaining, before he can put his retirement plan into action.

That's what he meant, of course.

Kraglin scowls at her instead, tossing the bottle onto the empties pile. It shatters with a satisfying smash, and one of the barkeep's pet robots scuttles from its hole to scoop up the mess. "Y'know," says Isla, eyeing the carnage. "Perhaps this ain't such a great idea after all. Heck, you're _nineteen_." She sighs and rubs ruefully at her brown curls, as she rolls another mouthful around her cheeks. "I think I should send you back to ship."

Aw. No way. This is far too much fun. Kraglin ups his performance, emptying the next bottle fast enough to slosh buttercup booze down his pants. "I'll behave," he promises, depositing the finished bottle in the robot's gangly arms. It chirrups in thanks; Kraglin points at it in explanation. "No more broken shit, I swear. See?"

But Isla's expression is solidifying into something firm and unyielding. "Kid," she says. She even sounds _regretful_ about it. "This was a bad decision from the start. I shouldn't have gotten yer hopes up – how about I cancel all your shifts tomorrow, and you bugger off now? Deal?"

"No deal," Kraglin snaps. A day without shifts is a day of trailing after Morlug or Varra, and getting roped into sponging stuff anyway. Varra ain't the most graceful of folks, and things have a tendency to fall over when he's around – plates, bowls, tanks of high-corrosive chemicals and the like. "Look, I'll – I'll be sensible. I'm not actually stupid, y'know. And I ain't a fucking kid. I don't care what sorta beef you all got with the captain. I can look out for myself."

Isla's eyes go wide. "You'll mind your mouth, rookie, if you know what's good for you," she growls. "Ain't none of us that've got a _beef_ with the captain. Especially not the first mate. Understand? Because that. Would. Be. _Mutiny_."

…Kraglin may have, once again, bitten off slightly more than he can chew. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment. "Oh," he finally manages. Isla takes another dark gulp – it's unnecessary; she's already spat a good gobfull of this stuff down the drain, but Kraglin figures that might be just the point.

" _Exactly_. Fuck you, greenie; you're too smart for yer own fuckin' good. Now get yer skinny ass back onboard before I chase it there."

Kraglin's about to do it too.

Then the door bursts open with a holler and a screech, and a flock of Ravagers pour in. From the look of 'em, they've stopped off at a couple of bars already. Kraglin recognises Varra and Figs – the latter nods to him occasionally, and the former indulges him in full conversations every once in a while (although heaven forbid he mention anything about name or former life). He wonders if the others from their bunk stack are there – the redheaded boot-throwing lass from the top and the fella on the bottom who he hadn't seen more of than two elongated and pungently fungal feet.

And the Kree guy, of course. Kraglin shudders. On second thoughts, perhaps it's best if he never meets him again.

Of course, the universe isn't that kind. The doors barge apart for a second time, and all the Ravagers cheer. Even Isla's distracted. Kraglin uses the opportunity to grab the next decanter and start pouring so that he looks like he's supposed to be here. Then Varra stomps over to the newcomer and loudly proclaims "Nice one, Yondu!" loud enough to make the rafters shake.

Kraglin almost drops the bottle. _Wait what_?

He looks up, stomach sac already descending to his knees in unease, and spots Varra pounding the shoulder of none other than Kree-guy himself. Kraglin's guts hit his ankles. Kree-guy – _Yondu_ – withstands the barrage, and Varra drags him into a backthumping hug.

"That the first mate?" Kraglin asks Isla out of the corner of his mouth. Just to be sure. Her frown lets up a little.

"Yeah."

"He's _Yondu_? Yondu Udonta?" "Yeah."

"Udonta's the guy whose bed ya dumped me in? The first fucking mate of the Ravagers?"

Isla cracks her metal-strewn knuckles. "Oh, yeah."

Kraglin stares at her. Then wordlessly downs the nearest tumbler. And the next for good measure. Oh yeah. This day _cannot_ get any better. Perhaps heading back to ship's a good idea after all. Behind him, Udonta extracts himself from Varra's embrace and works his way through the crowd of Ravagers, exchanging fist-bumps and toothy grins.

"Somebody get me a fucking drink!" he roars, and Kraglin freezes as Isla slaps him on the wrist.

"Go on then."

"Ain't I supposed to be goin' back to ship…?"

Isla's smile is pure devilry. "Missed yer chance."

Kraglin, life flashing before his eyes, takes the glass she holds out. It's about as long as his forearm and filled with swirls of settling, separated liquid, spirit and mixer in alternating shades of red and blue. Because apparently, Isla's sense of humour doesn't only revolve around his misery. His walk over to Udonta is slower than a man on the Green Mile, and not just thanks to the density of the red leather clad bodies packed between them. When he reaches him, he offers the pint of whatever-the-fuck Isla's concocted and keeps his eyes on Udonta's boots.

"The fuck is this?" Udonta asks, sounding delighted at the prospect of potential alcohol poisoning.

"You get it down in ten and I'll clean that gross old M-ship of yours!" Isla yells. Which means Kraglin will. Damn it. Udonta takes the bait though, crooked grin turning wily. He turns his gaze on the drink – the smell of which is starting to sear Kraglin's nostrils – like he's scoping a mark.

"You are fuckin' _on_ , girl." Great. He's crazy as well as liable to murder. Kraglin's thoughts on the matter are cemented, as Udonta snatches the glass from his hand and, to the pound of Varra's fist on the bartop and the vocal approval of every other damn Ravager in the place, starts to noisily chug.

He doesn't look at Kraglin once.

Really, he should feel more relieved about that.

"Three, two, one!" Isla chants. Udonta slurps the last drop, slams the glass into Kraglin's hands hard enough to send him stumbling backwards, and lets out a mighty belch. They all whoop like maniacs.

Varra leads the charge to the endless rows of shot glasses, Udonta dragged by the scruff of his coat. The herd of Ravagers stampede after them. Kraglin has to fight to stay on his feet; the glass is sticky with the residue of the drink and warm from Udonta's hands, sliding in his grip. But he manages to retreat to the safety of the bar with minimal damage, receiving only a steel toecap to the shin along the way. There he leans next to Isla, and composes himself long enough to get the shot he's snatched into his mouth rather than down his collar.

"He actually did it," Isla says. Her jangling eyebrows raise. "Guess we got a ship to clean." Kraglin reaches for another tumbler. He fucking knew it.

He can't stay on the outskirts for long though. Drunk Ravagers are _curious_ Ravagers, and if they still smack him about the ears when he tries to introduce himself, they do it while laughing. And they all seem united in their determination to get him catatonic. Kraglin's well on his way already, his belly sloshing like a washing machine; it only gets worse once he's drawn into the crowd of grubby leathers.

If he ain't fond of being the centre of attention sober, he likes it less drunk. So it's a surprise that the last real thing he remembers from that night is Varra barging him into Udonta's side as they down their shots together, and Udonta almost pissing himself laughing when Kraglin has to wobble outside and spew them back up.

He re-enters on shaky ankles, but forgets them as Figs grabs his hands and drags him into a crazy, knee-jerking dance, whirling round and round, faster and faster, her trenchcoat lifting behind her like a tatty black solar-wing. He's spun about, crashed into a table top when Figs loses her balance, picked up and set on his feet like a fallen toy soldier. Their faces wobble like he's viewing them through a dirty lens, and there seems to be two of everything. That or Ravagers multiply faster than a virus.

They're all around him, a horde of loud voices and tramping boots. His senses are saturated in leather and alcohol and sweat. Drink slops down his front.

He's got his arms around someone's waist, and he's not sure if he's using them as a crutch or dancing with them. But there's a strip of blue skin in front of him – he thinks it might be a neck. As it's all he can focus on, Kraglin slumps his bodyweight forwards and treats it to a sloppy kiss. He feels the person stiffen, and fuzzily expects to be shoved away. But then there's a gasp and he's pulled in _tighter_. When they break apart he's left a purple circle that's shiny and pretty with spit, and an odd sensation of pride.

After that it's all shattered images, stitched in something that might be chronological order.

Laughing so hard at a joke he only half remembers that he has to lean on the other guy so he doesn't flop forwards on his face (and it _is_ a guy, but Kraglin's too far gone to give a shit, and let's be honest, he ain't the pickiest anyway). Feeling the other guy's shoulders silently shaking too. A hand on his wrist, an insistent pull; the bartender lazily looking them up and down and slipping a keycard into his sweating palm.

"Use protection," he says dryly, but neither of them are listening.

Kraglin is apocalyptically, anarchically drunk, of that degree where everything is hazy and happy and he knows he's not going to remember any of it in the morning. Thus, technically, he supposes, he's got a free pass to do whatever the fuck he wants. The slate'll be wiped as soon as there's light in the sky, right? And then it's back to the life of Kraglin the underdog, hopping to with his trusty mop whenever a beacon flashes.

But not this. Nah. This night is gonna be _his_.

* * *

 _ **Ooooooh shiiiiiiiiii-**_

 **So, that just happened. Tune in next time for the morning after. Fret not, those who are looking for slow burn – sex doth not equal instant-relationship, and the boys still have a very (very) long way to go. Still, this gets the story moving a bit… Sex as a plot point, ftw!**

 **Come check me out at .com. I've filled a few Kraglin/Yondu prompts already, and the askbox is open. I'd love to write more!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sup folks~ Time for a mega upload, as I kinda forgot I was supposed to be updating on this site too… Sorry about that.**

 **cw: use of 'retarded' as a slur.**

* * *

If there were birds in space, they'd be singing.

Morning did not _break_ through the portal. It _encroached._ Light was a creep of supergiant-blue, inching across the stew of leather pants, discarded bottles, dirty boots and dropped glass oddities that carpeted a bare metal floor. Its advance was synchronised to the satellite station as it swung about its axis. Outside, the early trade ships slid across space like silent glow-worms over the roof of an unlit cave, paths criss-crossing and intersecting in a glittering tapestry. Inside however, everything was still. Everything was silent, barring the even snores. Light continued to fill the room horizontally, as if someone was pouring cerulean vodka in dodgy gravity; it drenched the leather trenchcoat dangling half-off the arm of the bedside chair, glided across the dull steel rectangle of the door, and finally spilt over the sides of the circular blanket-filled bed-nest to thoroughly saturate its occupants.

The glare's blinding – quite literally. Or it would be, had it not been for the space station's thoughtful inclusion of tinted glass for the sake of any guests stupid enough – or drunk enough, as in this case – to leave their shutters open before bed. The amount of photons pouring into the dingy little room is still more than enough to lance hot needles through Kraglin's eyelids.

Groaning, he gives the morning a one-fingered Xandarian salute. Then scratches at the drool caking the left side of his chin and rolls to press his face into his pillow and nurse his pounding skull, tasting nausea and unbrushed teeth.

His pillow does not approve.

At first, with a flash to his cell on Hrax, Kraglin assumes he's getting shanked. Possibly disembowelled. It's understandable. His nerves are hyperwired, as they always are post black-out binge, and the pointy thing jabbing him in the belly sure _feels_ like it's carving up his intestines. In the half-dazed horror of the still mostly-asleep, he waits for the sloppy slither of entrails hitting sheets. _Fuck. Fuuuuck. Ain't been a Ravager two weeks and I'm already on someone's hitlist._

His fears are averted soon enough. The stabs become punctuated, first with a growl, then by a rough rasp, like sandpaper being drawn over iron, which eventually evolves into speech.

"Gerroff."

Speech in a very distinctive backwater Xandarian dialect. Kraglin might be as green as a Ravager gets; but even he knows that first mates demand a little more respect than, say, Isla. He rolls off. Winces as his temples _throb_.

"S'rry sir," he slurs. Somehow though, his brain doesn't quite catch up to his words.

The knife is now revealed to be an elbow – blue; could've been a trick of the light, or Kraglin's itchy hangover-eyes, but heck, what's it matter, he don't discriminate. Its retreat is followed by a distinct lack of Kraglin's gory innards (for which he gushes a relieved sigh). There's another grunt. Then a slide of dry skin as a leg disentangles from his. Kraglin hadn't noticed it was there in the first place, but he idly scrubs a foot over where it rested, working the numbness from his calf.

"Wha time's it?" The other guy heaves himself along the rumpled mess of sheets in a half-plausible attempt at rising. He makes it halfway. Then flops onto his back with a defeated sigh. He doesn't seem to expect an answer. Kraglin, twitching like a Taser victim as every vibration of the mattress judders through him like a richtor 9 earthquake, is left to massage his tender crown in the hopes of coaxing out a comprehensible thought. Not that thinking's the easiest when your brain's being wrung by the bones of your skull like a sopping scrub-sponge. Any attempts to dredge up the memories of last night result in ringing ears and a reminder that all he has in his stomach is alcohol.

Alcohol and…

Kraglin blinks and licks his lips.

Huh.

Musta liked the guy. Or he'd been too drunk to give a shit. Least he hadn't gotten fucked – _damn_ , but if Morlug found out about that, he'd be a laughing stock for _weeks_.

Nah. This is okay. Bit sticky, bit grimy, but okay. The ache in his jaw ain't nothing compared to the one percolating in from behind his eyes, and his stomach-muscles have that pleasant laxness that comes after a damn good orgasm. A fortnight's a long dry spell for a young adult Hraxian ( _okay_ , teenaged, but only just!) Kraglin figures he shouldn't complain. He's comfy – comfier than he's been in memory. There's a mattress under him that ain't made of lumpy springs, and the blue light washes everything in watercolour.

Five more minutes – maybe ten; fifteen _maximum_. Then he'll go make sure Isla hasn't blasted off without him.

He scratches the drool-patch again, stretching. Then drapes a sinewy bicep over his eyes to ward off the godforsaken glare, and smiles. Apparently, he'd had a good night.

It's around this time that he realises the silence from the other side of the bed has become… well, a bit _ominous_.

Silence – noise: the lack thereof. It's a funny thing. An absence, an abscess of words. And yet it can say so much. Kraglin's heard his fair share. He can differentiate between comfortable, bored, tense, and relaxed; can read the nuances of whatever situation he finds himself dropped into. Adaptability and gut instinct. Good fucking traits for a petty-pickpocket-come-conman; excellent traits for a Ravager.

 _This_ particular silence has the hairs curling on his shins.

He snuffles a comforting nose-full of armpit guff. Then slowly unwinds his arm from around his face, and peeks out from under it.

Not a trick of the light. Nope. Definitely blue. _Definitely_ … Fuck.

Kraglin's throat works around a dry swallow.

Blue. Red-eyed. Red-implanted. Bandage over the new bullet-scar on his side. Crooked teeth capped with an assortment of metals, all of which are currently bared in a confused grimace as _Yondu fucking Udonta_ kneels on the bed next to him, naked as the day he'd been _fucking_ born, and reaches behind himself to probe experimentally at his ass.

" _Ow,_ fuck! Why the fuck's my –"

His voice trails off. Realisation dawns. It's a truly harmonic moment, marked by Udonta's narrowing eyes and Kraglin's rapidly widening ones.

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit…_

Perhaps it would've been better to have been shanked, after all. At least he'd've died quick-like.

"Uh," says Kraglin. The silence is positively _withering_. "Sorry…?" Udonta's flat mouth clenches into a full-on scowl. Then – oddly – purses. Kraglin has a moment to be confused before Udonta whistles.

The arrow hovering in front of his face burns brighter than the supergiant suspended in the aether beyond the porthole glass. Possibly because its tip is approximately five centimetres from his eyeball.

Brain thrumming like it's been infested with a colony of flesh-gnawing spacelice, Kraglin struggles up and away, shoulders thumping on the headboard of the circular nest. As if distance is gonna make _one bit_ of fuckin' difference. He lifts his hands in universal appeasement as the arrow follows. The whistle doesn't waver. Not for one second.

"Right! Right, gotcha! Nothing happened; nothin' at all, not one thing to be sorry for, nope. I was never here, you was never here, or if I _was_ here, you fucked me! You fucked me so good I can't fuckin' _walk back to ship_ ; in fact, heck, why don'tcha jus leave me here on this station and I'll pick up another crew headin' to the ass-end of the galaxy –" Very poor choice of words. "- And I'll never, ever speak of this, ever again. I swear!"

The arrowtip surges closer. Kraglin, head slammed back as far as it can get without busting through the space station's flank, is too terrified to do anything other than stare at it in the vain hope that it might be more amenable to pleas for mercy than its master.

"You think we're _bartering_ , boy?" Udonta grates. Kraglin's shoulders twitch in a desperate shrug. "No. You're tryin' t'think of one good reason why I don't take the easy way out." What exactly 'the easy way out' entails, is enunciated as the arrow makes another menacing thrust. Kraglin, nails biting into his upraised palms, whimpers.

What the hell kinda a weapon is that anyway? He's never heard of a Kree battalion breaking out into _whistles_.

Udonta scoffs and lurches off the bed. He refuses to wince – and while Kraglin doesn't remember much of last night, he doesn't remember stowing no lube in his jacket pocket neither. Which, coming to think of it, ow. He rubs his knees together. Friction burn where friction burn ain't meant to be.

If Udonta's face is a little _too_ stoic though, heck, Kraglin ain't gonna call him out. The Kree bends at the knees, huffing loudly between his teeth in something that _could've_ been aggravation, and grabs the first set of pants he finds. They're Kraglin's. He's debating whether pointing this out will be the last thing he does, when Udonta realises, swears, and lobs them in his general direction. The aim's off. Kraglin's sure they'll go sailing by – but then at the last second, the goddam belt flicks out, nicking the arrow right on its fletching. Kraglin's neck-crikking jerk is the only thing that saves eyesight and pre-frontal cortex alike, as the arrow buries itself in the headboard next to his ear.

"Whoops," said Udonta, not sounding especially sorry. He picks up a small figurine – where the heck'd that come from? – and rubs dust from its belly with a grimy blue finger. "You can pay for that."

Kraglin hasn't yet been paid period. His bank account's dryer than a Morag desert.

But there's more pressing concerns – his pulse thunders loud enough to give him tinnitus, and the adrenaline coursing through his petrified body must be seconds away from bringing about full cardiac arrest. Still, the arrow's lodged somewhere other than his skull. Some bright side, given Udonta – _First Mate Yondu Udonta, fuck_ – can whistle it there at any time. But any relief is worth something. Throat contracting around dry tonsils, Kraglin tries to muster the spittle to talk without sounding like a sand-filled engine.

"Sure. Sure, anything." He'll promise to buy the whole fuckin' galaxy. The next glance Udonta tosses him is not so much livid as disdainful.

"And you're a fuckin' coward."

Udonta stomps another paperweight as he struggles to get his second boot on; it crunches under his heel, and he bursts into a violent spiel of clicks that Kraglin's translator can make neither head nor tail of. Vocabulary re-emerges at around the same time that Udonta yanks fiercely on the bootstraps and forces his toes into place with an audible _thunk_.

"The hell was I thinking? Scrawny lil' bottomfeeder like you." He gives Kraglin a once-over, the closest he's looked at him since this whole fucking mess began, and groans. " _Thanos's ballsack_. You ain't legal. I fucked a fucking kid. A kid who ain't never used his dick before. Kill me now."

Indignant, Kraglin shoulders himself up the headboard and crosses his arms. "Oi, I'm nearly twenty! And you obviously didn't mind my dick last night!"

The arrow rips from the bedframe with a skin-crawling screech, and introduces its sizzling aura to his nose.

It's like sunburn. Bad sunburn, the peel'n'congeal variety. But Kraglin doesn't have no shade to escape to. He grits his teeth and tries to stare past the quasar-bright glow, to fix his watery vision on the blue figure beyond. "You really gonna kill me over this?" he asks, feigning bravado where he's got no more to give. "What, the _chance_ I'm dumb enough to go blabbing _I fucked Yondu Udonta_ to the Xandarian Daily?"

The shudder that passes through the arrow informs him that possibly, just possibly, acknowledging the nature of the crime isn't the best approach to paying penance. Udonta proves him right, picking up the second figurine and scowling at its broken arm before pushing it into his pocket with surprising care.

"You _thinking_ that thought's not helpin' yer cause none, lad."

Kraglin shrinks. "Aw, c'mon…"

"I've yet to hear a good reason why I oughta letcha live."

Kraglin racks his brains; turns up blank after blank. Why _should_ Udonta show him any sort of leniency? He's a nobody. A Hraxian greenie they picked up from a refill station, who left his homeplanet for _undisclosed reasons_ (a better-sounding way of saying 'fenced some fake shit, shot a cartel boss's trophy wife accidental-like'). He'd only taken the Ravager reds because his junkship had coughed up its last, and it was a better alternative to being lynched by mob goons. Nope, Kraglin's a man of precisely two talents – cutting good deals at markets, which is useful, and aggravating big fish in progressively bigger ponds, which is less so.

Sure, he's virtually mastered that special wrist-twist that severs spines from cerebral vertebrae, so you can yank it out of a neck to the lumbar. But while that old Hraxian trick is _flashy,_ and makes for good showmanship, it ain't much use for practical scuffling. Kraglin's not powerful enough or important enough to need to leave messages of that sort. Udonta… is.

"I can do that funky thing with the spines –"

Udonta, not expecting an answer, looks taken aback for the slightest of seconds. Then he yanks his shirt collar over his implant, rolling the material over his scarred chest and that weird second flap of skin on his belly – since when are Kree marsupial? – and snorts out a laugh.

"Yeah? Skinny little asshole like you?"

Kraglin's tempted to point out that, while on the _svelte_ side, he's a damn sight taller than Udonta. Kraglin's also not wholly devoid of common sense.

"Yeah," he answers, in hope. It's dashed when Udonta shrugs, stooping to fish for his trenchcoat.

"Good for you. Shame I got 'bout sixty other Hraxians in the fleet who can do the same." Kraglin winces. That's the problem, being one of the galactic species listed in the Nova encyclopaedias as 'common'.

"Alright – alright," he says. "Look, you got me. I ain't all that special. I can't whistle for arrows or, or _turn invisible_ or _teleport_ or whatever other magical shit might be of use to ya. To you, I'm just another gun, right? Cannon fodder."

"At least you ain't retarded," Udonta says.

Kraglin wets his lips. "So really, there ain't nothing stopping ya from shootin' me. 'Cept you."

At _that_ , Udonta's face darkens so rapidly it could've been mistaken for an oncoming cosmic storm. Still, Kraglin's just insinuated that he's _holding back_ , and he hasn't been impaled yet. Kneeling, he spreads his arms in a lanky crucifix. He tips his head back; the stipple of radioactive heat transfers to the tender skin of his neck. Needles jab his voicebox. He croaks out the next words on willpower alone –

"So, if you're gonna do it, for fuck's sake get on with it already."

There's an endless silence. Face tilted at the ceiling, it drags into a blind eternity, Kraglin's unable to gauge Udonta's reaction. He can, however, interpret the soft click as Udonta's arrow holster settles over his hip, then the whistle as the first mate calls the blazing instrument into it.

"Not one word," Udonta warns. He taps his arrow twice to hammer the point home.

Kraglin, arms trembling, bites his tongue and nods. But not before sending up a silent prayer of gratitude. Someone up there must be looking out for him. Udonta, on the other hand, now that he's made their stances clear, isn't inclined to hang around. He dismisses the naked nameless rookie, whose goosepimples are slowly settling into his skin. Swinging his coat over his broad back, he checks the bag of credit-chips tied to the inner lining – as if Kraglin'd be dumb enough to rob him – grunts to himself, and promptly marches out. Not a glance, before the door whooshes shut.

Kraglin waits a whole minute before letting his hands flop onto his lap. They fall heavier than anvils. His breath is coming in shaky bursts, and his headache has amped to the point he suspects it's prepping to supernova. An inch from his ear, the gouge sliced by the arrow stands out in the blue light like an unstitched scar.

"Fuck," whispers Kraglin, drooping until his forehead kisses the blankets. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, double fuck…"

Then realises that once the Ravager shuttle has first mate on board it's got no more reason to hang around in dock, and scrambles for his pants.

* * *

True to Isla's word, his wristband doesn't buzz for the rest of the day-cycle.

Kraglin makes it to the shuttle only a minute before Isla and Figs stumble on board and Thrabba punches in the decoupling sequence. Varra shoots him a dirty look when he first totters up the ramp, but a subtle insertion of Figs' bootcap into his shin prevents any comment. If anyone else was sober enough to notice him and Udonta sneaking off, they keep it to themselves. Kraglin is glad. With only a shell between them and gristly death via depressurisation-slash-solar-flare, one misfired arrow could kill them all.

He sits beside the M-ship's rear window, legs tucked under him as he memorizes the name of yet another station that he can never return to (having tossed the key into a waste duct and abandoned the room before the barman could assess the damages).

It's a ten-minute trip to the _Eclector's_ docking bay. Those ten minutes are infinitely lengthened by the fact that Udonta's nursing his hangover opposite and making an artform out of pretending he doesn't exist. Speaking of Udonta, and arrows… That's one weird fucking weapon. He's too scared of its owner to study the tip sticking out the flap of Udonta's coat, so he spends the journey counting the seconds, rubbing his parched throat, and contemplating how he's going to avoid the man for another fucking month. And listening to Isla puking, but they all have to suffer through that.

He's still berating himself for his stupidity when the shuttle wobbles through the hangar entrance and magnetises into dock with a bone-rattling clank. Once the _Eclector's_ atmosphere-preserving forcefield has reformed, Thrabba shoves the hatch open, his gait impossibly less linear than his flightpath, and ushers them out. Isla's busy using Udonta's arm as a stress-ball; Kraglin takes the opportunity and makes a dash for the cold red gleam of the _Eclector's_ interior.

 _Safe_ , he thinks. Then _home._

Fuck. When did that happen?

It must be the alcohol, he tells himself, as he staggers to a greenlit lift and fumbles out the code that'll take him to Level C. The same alcohol that made him think it's be an excellent idea to fuck a superior officer who can kill him with a whistle, and who may or may not be plotting a fucking _mutiny_.

And who's twice his age. _Fuck_.

That is, decides Kraglin miserably, stumbling along the corridor and sticking up his middle finger at anyone who pauses to laugh, the story of his fucking life. One catastrophe after another. Most fuelled by spirits, peer pressure, or general recklessness. He's on a downwards spiral, and can feel himself sinking further with every stupid-ass decision that pops into his head. If he doesn't get his act together, he'll never get the chance to tell Morlug his name.

And to top it all off, his _head aches_. Damn it. He's never drinking again.

He leans on the dormitory door until it falls open, then drags himself to the far bunk stack, toeing off his boots and tying the laces so they dangle on either side of his neck before starting the climb. He almost nods off halfway – but is urged on by growl from the bunk below, for him to _stop fuckin' creakin' about and go the fuck to sleep._

That's one order he'll willingly obey.

* * *

 **Hope the tense-change isn't too confusing. I think past tense works well for establishing atmosphere in present-tense fics, if used very,** _ **very**_ **sparingly. But I'm not wholly convinced that this is one of those times. I can always change it if it doesn't work!**

 **Also - I've filled quite a few one-shot prompts over at write-like-an-american on tumblr.**

 **If you fancy more little Ravagers snippets, that's the place to look! x**


	8. Chapter 8

**Another mega-chapter, to really get the plot ticking over.**

 **cw: character death, serious gore**

* * *

Kraglin's lying awake a fortnight later, dreaming of home and listening to the rumblings of the greasy kid above him's digestive tract. He's got notches chipped into the post of his bed – Kraglin's always been a knife guy, and his collection's only grown what with the events of recent weeks. He has, at Morlug's prompting, started to sew them into the lining of his clothes – skills with a needle are pretty much a requirement in this field; if you don't suck it up and patch your gear you wind up threadbare. Kraglin has, with a little guidance, swiftly become a master – his fingers are just the right side of delicate, and he can thread a needle first time, every time. The knife pouches are made from scraps from the spare uniform vat outside the quartermaster's stores; he'd begged and scrounged enough thread for three, and lifted the rest.

Not from his fellow Ravagers of course. There ain't many rules on this ship – none at all, really, except 'do what you're told' and 'don't piss the wrong person off'. But there's always the Code, muttering away at the back of his mind: _steal from everyone. Except each other._

At the moment he's training himself to sleep without getting pricked somewhere painful. And to remember where they all are before he strips down to shower. As it turns out, having a blade of A'askvarian steel slip out of your sleeve and impale your toe hurts like fuck, and will result in the ship's doctor rolling his eyes and shooting you up with an ineffectual pain killer, Isla laughing her metal-studded ass off, and precisely zero sympathy.

But whatever. Kraglin's improving. He can hit targets from one hundred yards, so long as they ain't bouncing about too much. Morlug's started dragging him up to the simulation pods to train on their off-shits. (Kraglin, who had entertained the hope that 'train' was a delicate euphemism, had been proved wrong most succinctly by the fist that introduced itself to his nose the moment the door clanged shut). He hasn't been scheduled for job duty yet, and he wants to make the most of the extra time to practice so that he doesn't get offed the moment he sets foot in the field. The delay's a relief, in a way – but only a superficial one. Because while his chances of dying are reduced significantly when he's behind the _Eclector's_ shields, he knows there's no escaping it forever. He's likely to be called upon any day now. Somehow, the wait is worse than the actual thing.

Kraglin _hates_ waiting.

The notches on his bedpost mark out the day-cycles, a longer stroke every seven. He's counting down – until he can desert, he tells himself, although he suspects it's more for when he can start demanding to be called by his actual name. Because he does have one of those, damn it. Hell, as soon as that day arrives, that fourth stroke of seven, Kraglin's sprinting to the comms rig and broadcasting out across the fleet: _my name is Kraglin Obfonteri, and I'm pleased to fucking meet you._

He's musing this through, hands clasped behind his head and socked feet propped over the bunk's end-rail, when his wristpiece starts to flash. No noise. That's odd.

Kraglin's tempted to call it a fluke, seeing as he's off-duty. But he ain't sleeping – and, you never know, this could be Isla changing her mind about that whole not-fucking-each-other thing. Heaven knows, he needs to sleep with someone other than Udonta before jumping ship. It's a matter of pride.

He rolls onto his belly, burying the winking screen under his quilt before it wakes his bunkmates, and squints painfully at the lit-up name.

Huh. It's Figs. That's unexpected.

He taps it once to answer, minimizing the volume, and presses it to his ear. "Whassup?"

"Need a hand," says Figs shortly. She sounds hoarse. Like she's been crying – although that's ridiculous, because Figs is as brutal as her diet is fibrous, and tougher than old boot soles. Probably been bawling someone out, then. "No questions asked."

"When did I become the guy who people trust with secrets?" Kraglin complains – after checking to make sure no one's eavesdropping. Figs doesn't laugh.

"Just get here," she says. "I'm sending the location now." His map pops up without prompting, dazzling him – the holographic fin of an engine slices his chin. Kraglin rubs bright specks from his eyes and locates the beacon, down in the M-ship hangar.

He's being called to the M-ship dock. In the middle of the night-cycle.

And as far as he knows, they're not due any operatives back until Udonta's next job's complete – which he doesn't want to think about right now, if only because it's due to make his life a whole lot harder. No. Something's happening, and Kraglin doesn't want to walk into whatever it is blind.

"Figs?" he asks. "What's going on?"

There's no answer. Then – "Varra's dead."

Kraglin hisses air through his teeth. "Shit. I'll – I'll be there. Right there. Gimme a sec."

"You're gonna need a mop," Figs tells him, blunt as always. Kraglin's throat clamps shut. He ain't _squeamish_ or nothing. But he's never had to sponge someone off the floor of a shuttle dock before, neither.

Fuck though. _Varra_. What the fuck's happening?

He tumbles out of bed, ignoring the cussing and dodging the hail of boots. Varra. Big ol' Varra. Varra the friendly fucking giant. Dead. Heck, Kraglin hardly knew him. Not really. He's only been on board three weeks, after all. But he'd seemed a decent guy; as decent as they came, out here. Sure, he'd been a bit… _distant_ , after the party (although Kraglin doesn't blame him, given that he can't recall how much of a show he and Udonta put on). But things had swiftly returned to normal. Heck, he'd even switched his schedule to eat dinner with him on his break, not two day-cycles since.

And as for Figs…

He wonders how long she and Varra have shared that bunk stack. He wonders how long it'll remain empty before they find some new rookie to fill it.

But that only leads to wondering about who'd slept in his cot before him, and _that_ to who'd worn his boots and shouldered his jacket and stitched the lighter patch over the frayed knee of his pants, and who had wrapped the rubber grips around the set of hand-crafted knives Morlug'd picked up for him from the Quartermaster. When a Ravager dies, they're subsumed into the ship. Cannibalised. Literally, if canteen's short on proteins. But it's the property distribution that makes Kraglin queasy, rather than what they do with the bodies; there ain't much sense in sending ripe meat out into the aether when it's of no use to its owner, after all.

Soon as the corpse's been stripped and the Quartermaster's taken his pick, everything's fair game. The clusters of personal effects that're stowed in lockers at the far end of the dorms get ransacked first. Their contents are parcelled off to whoever bids most for 'em. Hidden bottles of moonshine are cracked open and raised in toast. Accessories get slipped up sleeves and into pockets. Gold teeth and cybernetics are pried out, and will rattle around some lucky scavenger's pocket until they make it to the next port and sell them on to the jewellers and the black marketeers.

Kraglin drags his jacket on, stifling a yawn. All that a person is, is what they leave behind. And when you're part of a crew, what you leave gets divided, tallied up, and funnelled off to furnish a hundred greedy hands. Everyone here's a patchwork person, himself included. Stitched together from hand-me-downs and things less honestly acquired. He'd like to pretend it's a way to remember the dead, but he knows that's just naiveté talking. It's pragmatism, raw and simple.

Dead men tell no tales, and wear no boots neither.

His own creak over the grill panels. He pauses to buffer the door, passing his hand slowly over the closing mechanism so that it squeaks to a close rather than slamming hard enough to spit sparks from the light above.

Will he get first dibs, if he's on clean up? The thought's a little sickening actually, but Kraglin steals himself to it – you wanna survive as a Ravager, you gotta act like one. And surviving's what he intends on doing.

He doesn't know who's next up in the betting pool – Varra had his name on fourteen days, so he might well be closest. Who would the money go to, if he tripped and broke his neck at the bottom of a ladder chute? Would it be frittered off along with the rest of what had rightfully belonged to the high-gravity dweller; dissolving into the Ravagers' mass-body like compact-carb cubes in water?

Kraglin knocks on a wall panel, then boots it the way Morlug's taught him when it doesn't spring open on demand. Heel inserted into hinge, _just_ the right amount of pressure… Success. The slot pops. Kraglin fishes about until he locates a generic stack of cleaning equipment. He selects a mop, a brush, a pan and a bucket.

Then thinks of how big Varra is. Two buckets.

By the time he emerges, he looks more like a travelling tinker than a space pirate. His trudge to the lifts is solemn, the only funeral march Kraglin can afford to give. The effect's thrown by the buckets clanking on his arms; but Kraglin imagines they're drum-beats, the heavy rattle of snares that accompanies the Nova Corps on their annual parade in memory of those lost in the Kree war. He waddles to the cage-lift. The shaft gapes fathomlessly, ribbed with dim lights and blurred red depth markers. Kraglin mashes the button for the hangar level with his mop handle.

What could have taken Varra down, anyway? Plasma blast's most likely; they don't take size into account when they're chewing through you. If you're an unlucky enough biotic to get in one's way, they'll keep gnawing until their energy's drained or they come out the other side. But if Varra was with Udonta when he got himself shot, why's Udonta lugged the carcass back to ship? It can't _just_ be for the pleasure of making Kraglin clean it up… can it?

The lift chugs down, towards the artificial gravity generators situated on the _Eclector's_ designated 'underside'. It's an ugly contraption but a functional one, a wire box suspended on five long chains. There's one at each corner and one in the centre. Each is lashed to a loop as thick as Kraglin's thigh. The chains themselves are deceptively skinny, forged from some hyper-mobile Skrull metal that's easy to cast and not likely to break. They wrap around a system of pulleys, attached in turn to massive, ancient cogs, which grind each other slowly to dust and every so often let a chain slip free and go snapping up to butcher anyone dumb enough to stick their heads into the open shaft above.

By the time he reaches ground level, the buckets have dug grooves into his forearms and his left foot's jigging like he's having some kind of fit. Kraglin heaves the mop into a more stable position, and pushes the door open before the lift has groaned to a halt.

"Figs?" he calls. He can't exactly reach his wrist to activate the comm, and all these hangars look pretty much the same. "Figs? You around?"

"Don't _shout_ , ya fucking doorknob."

There she is – waving at him from the third hangar along. This part of the ship's as spacious as the rest is cramped. Their voices echo off the walls and meet in the middle, harmonics twisting until they're all but indistinguishable from one another. The corridor's a wormhole of transluscent pipes, crimped every ten paces by a fat rubber lip that circumferences the tunnel and trips the unwary. There's no light panels down here. Only the flares from the engines: channelled through the tubes in bright, pulsing surges. Kraglin could walk without a stoop in his shoulders – but he's become so used to ducking under doorframes that he hunches on instinct. He clacks carefully over to Figs, elbows out in the hopes she'll notice his plight and offer to relieve him of at least one of the buckets. She just looks him over and nods.

"That should be enough. There's a fire faucet on the dock, and I've got solvents on my ship if ya need 'em. Hurry it up though. I've cleared the hangar, but we gotta get him out before the next shift starts." That's in seventy minutes. Kraglin balks and picks up his pace, stepping into the sprawling, M-ship-cluttered dock. Then slows. Then stops completely.

"He's, uh. He's very. Whole."

Figs shoots him an exasperated look. "And?"

It wasn't a plasma rifle, that's for sure. Those tend to leave a lot more… _splat_. Whatever's offed Varra, is done so very quickly and cleanly. Even been kind enough to cauterize the hole on the way out. But it ain't Kraglin's place to comment on that. He dumps the buckets off, breathing through his nose and avoiding looking at the trickle of sizzled brain-matter that's dripping into Varra's eye-socket.

"I'm gonna have a hard time shifting him subtle-like, that's all," he says. Figs groans, stamps over and rips his jacket open – ignoring Kraglin's squeak. She pulls out his favourite knife, the one he keeps over his heart.

"Well, why don'tcha do somethin' about it?"

The blade waggles in his face. Right.

 _Right._

Butchering the first guy on board who'd spared him a decent word. No problemo. He can do this.

Kraglin takes the knife, wrapping fingers around the hilt that have already begun to sweat. He kneels besides the corpse. It's eerie, seeing the big lug laid out like this. All pale and clammy as a wax replica. He's cold and stiff in his leathers, and there's a grey tint emerging from around his ears, spreading across the bridge of his nose. The backs of his hands are mottled purple. Kraglin shudders. If petrification is setting in this soon, he must've been doing some damn heavy lifting before he acquired his extra breathing hole. Which reintroduces the question – what exactly is he seeing here? A nasty, incriminating accident? Murder?

And where the hell's Udonta, anyway?

That's definitely his M-ship. It's above them, dangling from its harness like an ugly orange chandelier. Isla had made him make good on her promise: after the Party Which Will Never Be Spoken Of Again, he'd been over the damn thing with wire-toothed comb – thankfully, while Udonta was busy reporting to the captain, or doing whatever else it was first mates got up to when they weren't stealing objects of considerable wealth and destructive ability or threatening Hraxian rookies with remote-controlled radioactive arrows. He knows the damn thing inside out.

The scrubbing had been a process as bewildering as it had been informative. Apparently, Udonta is messier than your average Ravager – an impressive feat – but manages to maintain a spotless collection of glass novelties on his control panel, and has several more tucked away in cupboards or under consoles. Kraglin's slow progress had been observed by a thousand beady little eyes. How Udonta flies straight under their constant supervision, he has no idea. (Judging by the amount of dents pitting the M-ship's exterior, Udonta doesn't either.)

"So do ya, uh, want the coat?" he asks Figs. Because it's damn good leather and there's little enough of that going around. Figs fishes out a knife of her own – a fucking kukri, as long as her entire fucking arm; where she's been stowing it is anyone's guess. Then she looks him in the eye, and slits Varra open from chin to belly, jacket and all.

Okay. No salvage. Kraglin's glad – it's awkward enough wrestling clothes off normal cadavers once rigor mortis has set in, let alone when said cadavers are over seven foot tall and muscled like a titan on steroids. Plus, he likes to think it gives Varra a little more dignity. Although it's rapidly proven that dignity don't much factor when you're being sliced small enough to be fit into two buckets.

Kraglin sits back on his heels, stained to the elbows with the contents of Varra's large intestine, and looks despairingly at the overflowing vessels.

"This's never gonna work."

Isla would've called him a pessimist and kept right on shovelling. Morlug would've assessed the buckets, come to the same conclusion, proceeded to panic and, in attempting to hide her panic, panicked more. Varra… Varra would've made a joke. Something about how at least they'd be able to entertain each other, once they've been thrown in the brig and left to rot.

Figs just nods, and goes to find another bucket.

There's cleaning equipment stowed in the hangar – of course there is; Kraglin's stupid for not thinking of it before. But he can't identify the wall hatches by sight like Morlug can, and he's too embarrassed to ask how to bring up the respective map beacons. Figs returns, dragging an empty wheelie-bin, and proceeds to scoop handfuls of meat and tattered leather. The bones're harder to cut through – Kraglin really has to saw. His knife's already blunt along one edge. He knows better than to ask if Figs is going to pay for a new one.

It's the smell they don't tell you about. Not that Kraglin's ever attended a lecture on Dicing Up Dead Bodies 101, but nevertheless. He's smelt rot and he's smelt guts, but he's always been able to walk away. This… this is smothering. Blood and fluid and fecal matter, all cold and pungent, semi-congealed in death. He's choking on it. Gagging almost. But the knowledge that if he throws up it'll just be one _more_ thing for him to clean keeps his lunch where it's supposed to be. He lifts Varra's head, gentler than is necessary, and scrapes gunky grey-matter of the chrome plaque beneath.

That wound is very, _very_ neat. Neat enough to come from – say, an arrow?

Kraglin swallows, tasting acid.

"Hey Figs. What'm I looking at?"

"I said no questions." Figs concentrates on lifting Varra's liver – a floppy black sack which, from the way she's straining, must weigh a good ten kilograms. It sails into the bin and lands with a resounding squelch. Kraglin winces, and returns to Varra's half-dissected femur.

"We could do with a saw, y'know. Else this is gonna take forever." Figs hums in agreement. The blood splattered up one side of her chin makes her look more manic than ever, clotting between the green frills. She rises, shaking drops from her fingertips, and vanishes into Udonta's ship. Kraglin works silently while she's gone. He makes an effort to stop his gaze returning to that neatly singed, penny-sized hole, but it's not overly effective.

 _Not your business_ , he tells himself, when he catches his gaze wandering for the fourth time. _You've got what, another three weeks, before you'll be far enough from Hrax to buy a new identity and make your own way. Think of the retirement bungalow. Don't get dragged into this._

But Varra's dead. Varra's very dead, and by Udonta's hand – or whistle, at least. And the last time Kraglin saw them together, they had their arms linked at the elbow as they knocked back a shot. It… it doesn't add up.

"So where's Udonta?" he asks as Figs returns, a massive Kree melee weapon hefted over her shoulder. It's got a toothed underside, and looks like it'd crack a thigh bone if dropped on it – good enough, he supposes, for the task at hand. Figs slants her eyes at him.

"Seein' Captain," she says. Her voice is more clipped than usual, all consonant. "You ain't all that great at this whole not-asking-questions shtick, are ya."

 _Usually I am_ , Kraglin wants to say. _But usually, I don't accidentally fuck folks who murder their best friends._ That seems like a very good way to get on both Figs' and Udonta's bad sides though, and hell, after seeing this, that's the last thing he wants. He settles for – "Just curious. And I keep most shit to myself, anyway."

Figs sniffs in disbelief. "I shoulda bet on a week rather than a month. Fuck, greenie, how've you made it this far?"

Admitting that he finds himself asking the same question every night as he lays awake in his bunk would be far too telling. Kraglin smiles mysteriously and wipes blood off his nose. Unfortunately, the sleeve he selects for this purpose is messier than the target, and all he achieves is a smear of coppery warpaint. "You start on his legs," he says, shifting to give Figs access. "I'll get his head off."

"Fuck it up a bit first," Figs orders. "He got sucked into the M-ship engine, remember."

"Did he."

Kraglin's voice is flat. But Figs's stare is flatter, and as cold as the void outside. "You were there," she says. "You should know."

Of course he fucking was.

She scoots her kukri over. When a quick examination of his own blade proves it to be well and truly dulled – a tragedy as great as the one leaking blood over his boots – Kraglin tosses it to skitter down the dock and accepts her offering. He sets the point against Varra's cheek. It slices into the tightened muscle before he's applied any pressure. Kraglin tries not to think too hard about what he's about to do.

 _Sorry mate_ , he projects to Varra, wherever his spirit might be. And pushes the knife down.

* * *

They finish with five minutes to spare. Kraglin helps Figs unreel a fire hose, which lowers from the ceiling when she taps an order into her wristpiece, and scours the last remains of Varra from the dock with a squirt of pressurized foam. They empty the buckets into the bin, stack the rest of the grotty cleaning equipment, and wheel off to find an airlock. Figs doesn't hang about to watch as the evidence gushes out into the abyss, shrinking to a pinprick in under a second. But Kraglin strains at the porthole until not even his imagination can pretend that he can identify the bloody bin that they've sent spinning across the stars.

"Now what?" he calls after Figs' retreating back. Her boots plod to a halt. There's a shuddering sigh.

"Now you go find Udonta and work on your fuckin' cover story." Kraglin is struck by the certainty, not for the first time, that the universe is steadily stacking its cards against him.

"Do I have to?" he asks. It's not a whinge. Not quite.

The look Figs shoots him withers any resistance. "Yeah," she says. "This is your fuckin' fault, after all."

Kraglin blinks. This is news to him. "I didn't shoot him."

"You might as well've done." There's tension in her scaly brows, he notices. More lines around her mouth. Figs ain't got enough Skrull in her to shapeshift, but stress ages her like nothing else, until her hide's had enough rest to re-elasticate. Right now, she looks as wizened and ancient as he's ever seen her. Kraglin, oddly, doesn't feel his usual fight-or-flight response kick in when faced with her accusation. Only confusion – and a vague sense of pity.

Figs sighs again. It's the tiredest sound he's ever heard. "I'm goin' to bed," she mutters.

Kraglin pictures Varra's bunk, abandoned with his unwashed quilt bundled airlessly in the far corner, and closes his eyes. Apologising is pointless. He didn't have anything to do with Varra's death – if anyone, Figs is the one who got him involved. She's only looking for a blank face to blame. He don't mind being that for her, so long as it doesn't land him extra scrub shifts. Or gory vengeance and the suchlike.

Well, there's no hope of chasing sleep now. And anyway, he's got a witness statement to prep. Kraglin bids goodbye to the rest of his night cycle and heads to find Udonta.

* * *

 **Sorry about Varra. I hope you didn't like him too much...**

 **So, things are heating up for the boys! Hope I've left this on a big enough cliffhanger to get y'all hungry for Wednesday.**

 **Thanks for reading; drop a comment if you enjoyed! xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**In which Jora stomps on stuff, Kraglin gets punched in the face, and mutinous plots may be afoot.**

 **I'm super-busy this week, so I'm afraid this just... hasn't been edited. :sobs: I might not be able to get a chapter up on Saturday, but I'll at least give this one a thorough go-over by then!**

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The door to the Bridge shunts open and a body shunts out, nearly bowling Kraglin over. Kraglin dodges, underarm scratching on a hidden knife-tip, and grabs the person by their elbows so they don't smack into the wall. They wrench out of his grip. He makes sense of a garbled "Stay outta there, greenie, if ya wanna live!" – then they're off and away, scrambling for the safety of the lift.

Kraglin gapes after them. "Huh," he says.

The door eases shut gradually. Kraglin pads closer, jabbing in a toe to prevent it from locking on. Then regrets it, as something shatters on the opposite side, and he jumps high enough to smack his skull on the frame. "Owfuck." Luckily, his exclamation is drowned by a woman's bellow:

"The _fuck_ were you thinkin', boy? Taking on the Nova Corps? If your bounty gets any higher, I'll drop you off at the Kyln myself!" Kraglin shivers in his boots. That must be the captain – a voice that good at projecting itself can only belong to someone of comparable authority.

"Not like I had a choice, is it?" rages the target of her wrath. Kraglin, if possible, shrinks further. Udonta. "Perhaps if Dagada the goddam Detenator had given me some _good fuckin' intel_ for a change, I wouldn'ta had to fight my way out!" A pause. "And don't call me _boy_!"

"Don't you go blamin' this on Dagada!" There's another tinkling smash, followed by a dangerous rumble from Udonta. Kraglin, not sure who he's supposed to be more afraid of, settles for being terrified of both. " _You_ failed the mission, Udonta!" the captain continues. " _You_ dropped the artefact in the _middle of a Nova barracks_! And then ya killed half of 'em and led the other half straight to us! Y'know we don't mess with the Empires! The fuck's the matter with ya?"

Udonta's repartee comes without a second's reprieve – "That I trusted Dagada enough not to send me straight into a fuckin' ambush, that's what! It was a set up, Jora. They knew we were comin' for it." His voice drops a register, still hoarse but quick and earnest. "Fuck, can't you see? Dagada's after yer favor. That's what this is. Ya know it too – he's always had his eye for the captaincy, and now you're gettin' closer to kickin' it –"

The smashes increase so much in frequency and violence that they cut Udonta off mid-flow.

Kraglin has to cover his ears. When the cacophony ceases, Udonta makes a noise in the back of his throat like he's about to pick up where he left off – only to fall quiet as Captain Jora grinds fractured glass under her heel. The soft crunches become squeaks, then scratches, as whatever she's stomping on is crushed to powder. Then, at long last, there is silence. It's broken by Jora. Her voice is so dark that Kraglin's bladder shrinks by a cubed inch.

"So _that's_ what you boys've been scufflin' over."

He can picture Udonta rolling his eyes. Oh shit. "What d'you fuckin' expect? You ain't getting no younger, Jora. I ain't gonna sugar-coat it for ya."

"That's _Captain_ Jora. I ain't dead yet. And if you're so damn _convinced_ –" Another smash, " – That I'm _past it_ –" Two more, skrsh crnch, and a strangled note of dismay from Udonta; what the hell is she breaking? "- How about you try a stint without my fuckin' _favour_ instead? Walk a coupla miles in Dagada's goddam moccasins." Or words to that effect.

Udonta sucks in a breath. Then pushes it out in a mocking snort. "Aw, you gonna _demote_ me again? Over a _bauble_?"

"That bauble coulda brought in _five thousand units_! More than you're worth t'me, that's for sure."

A noisy scoff. "Yeah, yeah! Screw you too, captain."

Jora's tone darkens further. Kraglin has to cross his legs. "You're lucky I don't drag ya to the brig and make a lesson of you in front of the crew."

 _Don't say it_ , Kraglin pleads. _Don't you fucking say it._ Because Udonta's sneering, he's sure of it, and that doesn't bode for anything good. Sure enough, he's right.

"Y'know what?" Udonta says. "I don't think you could if you tried."

Oh shit. Kraglin did not sign up for this. Couldn't he have picked the one Ravager galleon where there _wasn't_ a mutiny in the works? Or at least a first mate to sleep with who didn't have a bigger deathwish than him? His ankles are borderline quaking, and he's on the safe side of the door. He'd thought that the silence when he'd woken next to the man was bad. But the one that follows Udonta's statement is of a different calibre altogether; this one _simmers._

"You're on Horuz's ground team for the next job," says Jora lowly, after a full festering minute, measured by Udonta's heavy breaths and Kraglin's elevating sweat levels. "You follow his orders. Shoot where he points, sit up and beg when he tells ya to. And you don't show yer ugly fuckin' mug on my Bridge until I give the say so. Understood?" There's a huff of affirmation. "Right. And as a special treat, you get to go to Dagada and notify him to take over first mate's duties. For the foreseeable future." The huff is… rather more incendiary this time. Jora croaks out a laugh. "You ain't got no one to blame but yerself. Hop to it, Udonta."

Kraglin thinks that'll be it. Kraglin _prays_ that'll be it. Kraglin is mistaken.

"Let's say ya do get offed in that period though," Udonta begins. "Hypothetical-like. Or you croak in your bed, or whatever." Kraglin has to resist the urge to bust down the door, storm across the room, and strangle him himself. "Who takes over?"

Jora's snarl is bloodcurdling. "The. First. Mate. Now git, or it's the brig."

Udonta gits. A final smash of something delicate breaking over the doorframe sees him out. Kraglin sees the leg of the trinket, the one Udonta'd stepped on back at the bar, skitter across the floor and drop down a grate, never to be seen again. It's followed, unfortunately, by Udonta himself.

He narrows his eyes at Kraglin who, having petrified at the sound of his approach, is nose-to-nose with him. The arrow's in its sheathe. Kraglin sees him contemplate it. But Udonta takes in his frozen stare and his crusty crimson coating in two quick glances, one up and one down. Rather than quick and agonising death, Kraglin's treated to a full set of broken yellow teeth as Udonta growls – then he grabs him by the _fucking Mohawk, ow,_ and yanks him along the corridor.

"The fuck are ya doin' here, rookie?" he mutters. Kraglin swallows, bent double to compensate for the difference in their height as Udonta continues his attempts at scalping him. A Ravager squeezes by on the other side of the corridor, glancing at them with unbridled fear. Kraglin, willing to comply with any interrogation if Udonta will only _let go of his hair_ , answers in a jumbled rush.

"Figs told me to find ya, she said –"

"This about Varra?" Udonta, against all odds, _laughs_. The sound reverberates down his arm and shoots needles into Kraglin's scalp. It doesn't sound especially mirthful. "If this's about Varra, lad, you are the last fuckin' person I wanna see right now."

"Um, okay. If you let go of my hair, I can go –"

Udonta carries on as if he hasn't heard. "You ain't got no clue what's goin' on here, do ya? No fucking clue." There's that laugh again. The next group of Ravagers they pass collectively cringe. So does Kraglin. "That must be nice."

"It's not, actually, I'm very confused, and my head _really_ hurts, so –"

Udonta waves his free hand lazily through the air like he's conducting to a choir. "Look, I ain't in the mood to be explaining things. Just know that Varra didn't watch his fucking mouth, and that you better be careful if ya don't wanna end up the same way." Udonta isn't in any position to lecture people on minding what they say, given what Kraglin's just heard. It's best not to voice that thought though.

"This about what happened on that satellite station?" he asks instead, squinting from under the handful of greasy hair in Udonta's grip. His eyes are watering; he blinks the sting away. "Look, I said I weren't gonna say nothin', and I meant it. That's between you and me. It ain't never gonna happen again, so if ya can just _forget_ it…"

"I forgot it the moment I closed the door," Udonta snarls. Right. Of course. "Unfortunately for you an' me, Varra didn't."

Ah. "You're first mate," Kraglin tries. "Who cares who ya fuck?"

"The person who was gonna be _my_ first mate when I made captain." _Ah._ "Look, it ain't none of yer business."

Except for the fact that he'd been, well, as intimately involved as was possible. The pressure on his hair isn't so agonising now; Kraglin tests the slack and tentatively uses the extra inch to look at Udonta's face. The man's still striding along, but slow enough that Kraglin doesn't have to stumble like a lamed Knowhere-lizard to keep up. His jaw's clenched, and there's a muscle ticking away under his eye like it's keeping time.

"What happened?" Kraglin asks.

Udonta waits until they've come into an empty stretch of corridor, no more Ravagers to terrorize. Then he shoves him up against the wall and punches him in the face.

Hard.

Kraglin's nose squishes like it's made of dough. Shit. There go his bonny good looks. "Fuck!" he tries to say – it comes out 'fugk', but he thinks he gets the gist across.

"He said," says Udonta, teeth bared in Kraglin's face, "that I shoulda killed ya when I had the chance."

Another punch – this delivered to the solar plexus. Kraglin bends around it, wheezing up spit. Blood gushes over his upper lip. "He said that if I didn't do it, he would."

That lunch they'd shared suddenly comes over as a lot more sinister. Thank fuck he'd spent his formative years scrambling through the gutters of a metropolis-planet – ain't nothing that accelerates your immunity development like wallowing in toxins day in and out.

The next hit tenderises his ribcage. He's too busy trying to find a solid chunk of cartilage in his nasal ridge to realign to give more of a reaction than a pained hiss. There's blood, blood everywhere, as warm and wet as Varra's is dry and flaking, and more spurts out when he gasps for air. It's odd somehow, to think that in a few minutes it'll be impossible to tell which splatter came from whom. Dang, but Kraglin's gonna need a shower after this. Preferably a full-body tumble-wash.

Udonta's final words are delivered in a menacing rasp, close enough to his ear that Kraglin's convinced he's readying to take a bite out of it. "He said that if I didn't step up and put an arrow through your _dumb fucking skull_ , I was provin' that I was too soft to be captain. And I'm wonderin' if he might be right."

All Kraglin can taste is copper. All he can see is bloodstains and the worm-like blue arteries in Udonta's throat. "If you shodt him jus' for sayingk dat," he burbles, "I dink you'b already proobed him wrong."

Udonta's head tilts in consideration. Breath lathes his earlobe, humid and dangerous. Whether he's contemplating what's been said, or is just trying to make sense of it, Kraglin has no idea. Fingers tighten on his lapels, leather creaking – fingers that could give the same treatment just as easily to his neck – and Kraglin expects the pummelling to resume any minute. But Udonta nods to himself, and steps back.

"Huh. Guess you're right. Hadn't thought of that."

Kraglin warily straightens – and, when that movement isn't met with violence, sets his jacket to rights. His nose, unfortunately, is beyond repair. "Habby to helb, sir…?"

Udonta's expression becomes bemused. "'Sir'? Didn't ya hear the captain, greenie? I ain't first mate no more. Just another grunt. Like you."

Kraglin chooses to ignore that last part. "Yeh, but you'll be bagk, won'd ya?"

It's true. He doesn't trust a guy like Udonta to stay down, no matter how low he's kicked, and he'd rather be on his good side when the inevitable resurrection occurs. Speaking of kicking though – and grievous bodily harm in general…

Kraglin presses his hands over his ribcage and works on convincing his lungs that they don't need to breathe so deeply. _Damn,_ he's gonna have bruises in the morning. And black eyes. Two of them, no doubt. Udonta punches _hard_. Udonta also notices the difficulties Kraglin's having; there's a flicker in his dark red eyes – all the warning Kraglin gets. Then Udonta grabs his head and tilts him roughly towards the light. Kraglin most certainly does not squeak. A red bubble expands out of his left nostril, glossy and trembling, then bursts over his concave septum.

Udonta clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "Shaddup. Lemme see." He uses his thumbs to angle Kraglin's jaw from left to right.

There's no arguing with that tone. Kraglin relaxes. Slowly. The panel above his head is chipped at one corner; bright light pours through, blinding compared to the off-white rays that percolate the dusty plastic screen around it. His eyes are watering like fountains on a Xandarian lawn, and Kraglin's cheeks are so slippery with blood and saltwater that Udonta's fingers slide until they're almost gouging them. Udonta scrutinizes what's left of his nose and rattles his throat like an angry snake. It's an odd sound – Kraglin's never heard anything quite like it, not outside of a Knowhere lizard-fighting ring. He's certainly never heard it emanating from a Kree. But whatever it is, it's not positive.

"How bab is id?" he asks, voice hoarse beneath the nasal wetness.

Udonta's mouth thins. "Doc'll be able t'salvage most," he says. "I think." Kraglin waits expectantly. Udonta just blinks at him. There's no hint of an impending apology. Of course; that'd be far too much to fucking ask. Kraglin sniffs – then regrets it.

"I guess I'b bedder be off den." There was an actual purpose to this visit however, and he's not in the mood to be chewed out by Figs on top of suffering through Udonta's brand of tough-love. "Oh yeh. Varra. The foobnodes: M-shib endgine. _Whooshd_. Chugked da body out da airlogk."

Udonta nods. Like this is your average, everyday conversation between two pals. Kraglin wants to scream. "Alright rookie," he says. "Go get that face fixed. I'll put ya on Horuz's team – we can go over the shit with Varra then."

So, to top everything off, he's being assigned active duty. Whoopdee-fucking-do.

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Kraglin comms Figs once he's laying on a table in the cobbled-together medicentre that dominates the _Eclector's_ far left wing, head ringing from the moonshine that's been poured down his throat in favour of painkillers – they save those for the named recruits, he figures. He leaves a message after the surly answering tone (" _I'm asleep, fuckhead, try again in my day-cycle._ ")

"Figs? You bet on a month for me, right?" He pauses, taking the opportunity to slurp air through his newly reconstructed nasal passages. It tastes like antiseptic and rust. "Figs, I think you're gonna be rich."

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 **So, things are heating up plotwise... :tense music:**

 **No way am I going to have time to fill any prompts this week, but still feel free to dump any in my inbox over at write-like-an-american on tumblr. Drop me a comment if you've liked the story this far. Mucho de love!**


	10. Chapter 10

**It's a wee bit shorter than usual, but yay, chapter!**

 **In which Kraglin attempts to flirt, Horuz is Horuz, and space is BIG.**

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Kraglin clatters to a halt at the bottom of the steps that feed into Hangar Bay Z: out of breath, feeling like an idiot, and ten minutes late.

He's surprised they haven't left without him. But there they are, in all their scraggly glory: six Ravagers, crammed under the buxom swoop of a shuttle's underbelly. Udonta's at their centre. Horuz stands stiffly a few metres away, chin jutted out and trying to look like he's in charge. Horuz is the bearded goon with the face that turns into a ripe plum at the first hint of insubordination or humidity, the one who'd gotten his kicks out of bawling him out in the engine room on his first day. Horuz is also, Kraglin decides, an A-grade a-hole. That doesn't stop him from staggering over and gasping out an apology. Horuz sneers at him, while Udonta sniggers under his breath.

"Aw, greenie, where'd ya get lost this time?"

"I didn't get _lost_ ," Kraglin argues, propping hands on his knees and panting. "It ain't my fault your dumb maps don't work right."

Udonta smirks, drawing giggles from the surrounding Ravagers. Bunch of fucking schoolchildren. "Nah, you're just shit at readin' em."

Kraglin pulls himself up. "I learn better by _experience_ , is all."

"S'why you been crew coming-on a month and you _still_ can't find the low hangar bay…"

"Quiet!" Horuz roars. Judging by the puce coloration and the accompaying spray of spittle, he's been working himself up for some time. Kraglin's unsurprised. Being put in charge of an uppity Udonta sounds more like punishment for Horuz than vice versa. And, judging from the manic energy in the Kree's odd red eyes, he's channelling his anger at the captain and bo'sun into making Horuz's life as unbearable as possible.

It's a noble cause. Kraglin pledges to support him every step of the way.

"Can I fly?" he asks.

Horuz fingers curl like they're practicing wringing off his head. "Shut the fuck up and do what I say," he growls. "All of ya, on the fuckin' ship. Now. And greenie?"

Kraglin snaps to mock attention. "Yeah?"

"I see your skinny ass anywhere _near_ them controls, I'm gonna fillet it for a mid-afternoon snack." Something about the way he says that tells Kraglin he's not joking. Bravado cowed – until he can think up suitable revenge – he swallows and slinks after the rest. Whatever. Ain't like he wants to pilot one of their stinky ships, anyways.

Onboard, he ends up sandwiched between an overweight Kronan and an A'askvarii girl (he thinks) with black-dipped tentacles. The only thing worse than being caught between a rock and a hard place is being caught between a rock and a sea-monster. But seeing as every other nameless mook in the craft has picked up on the weird vibes from Udonta – that, or they've heard about his demotion from Dagada, who's been bragging to everyone he sees – and is straining to sit as far away from him as possible, Kraglin supposes it can't be helped. He chooses Scylla over Charybdis.

"Hi," he says to the A'askvarii. "I ain't allowed to tell ya my name, but I gotta say, that dye-job's pretty awesome."

The A'askvarii's hairless eyelids spasm, and her gill-like nostrils quiver. He thinks she might be trying to flutter them. "Thank you," she purrs. Slithers an inch closer. Kraglin grins. He can still pull 'em.

On his other side, the Kronan makes a belch-like scoff – sounds like two mountains grating together. "No fucking the new guy," he says, arms crossed over his chest. His jacket's open and several sizes too small, straining around a rubbly orange belly. "At least, not next t'me."

A'askvarii-girl's gills flare as she brays out a laugh. "Next time then, sweetheart," she tells Kraglin, and tenderly caresses his chin with a sticky tentacle-tip. Kraglin tries not to lean away.

"Sure. Just so ya know though, I do the fucking –" There's a choke from Udonta. Kraglin scrambles to rephrase. "It's just, y'know, what they say about A'askvarii gals and tentacles – not that you're like that… Or, if you are like that, there ain't nothing _wrong_ with it; but heck, I ain't really into it. That's all."

A'askvarii's looking at him oddly. " _Riiight_ ," she drawls. Retracts her tentacles and turns to bestow her attention on the Ravager on her other side. Kraglin glowers at his boots, cursing his luck, Udonta, and everything in between. The Kronan's elbow digs into his side. His chuckle would've wobbled the belly of any other species, but the heavy, stone-cast gut remains unshakable.

"Well greenie, ya sure fucked that one up," he stage-whispers. Kraglin shrugs him off. _Whatever._

Horuz ain't the type to brief them down before they get to the shooting and stealing, so, after Udonta's stopped wheezing and the A'askvarii's ceased her jabbering and silence has fallen once more, the Kronan takes it upon himself to fill them in.

"Ain't a big job," he tells them, pulling up a dodgily-sketched schematic on his wristpiece. Even Kraglin, whose artistic skills are on par with those of a three-year-old, examines it dubiously. "We've been commissioned to retrieve the skull of a Cartel don – s'got some nice shinies lodged in it, apparently. Should fetch a pretty price as a… a table-piece or something. I dunno."

Udonta's head pops up. Kraglin disguises his laugh in a cough. He can just see it: the gem-studded skull of a gangster bobbing above Udonta's dashboard like fuzzy dice.

"Anyway. Ain't got no guards or nothing, so long as we don't set the alarms off – just a bunch o'traps. We got us a diagram from an inside source –" The wristpiece is given an illustrative shake, one which blurs the fuzzy blueprint further. "- So it should be an easy in-and-out. Usual rules though, for greenie's benefit…" A square orange hand, larger than a shovel-head, swaddles Kraglin's entire shoulder. "Don't touch nothin', and don't be a fucking idiot," says the Kronan, patting hard enough to level a lesser man. "Or don't come back alive."

Survive today and tomorrow, and he can start telling folks his name. That's motivation, if nothing else is. Kraglin nods.

"Alright!" calls Horuz from up front. "We're coming into orbit! Get yer space suits on!"

They can't, for obvious reasons, dock on an alarm-rigged memorial asteroid that's only twice the size of their craft. They can, however, circle the moon around which the memorial floats, matching orbit and velocity, and – as the Ravagers say – _take a walk_. Kraglin unbuckles himself along with the rest, and stands on his chair to reach the suit down from the roof compartment. It's… crustier than he expected. Hopefully not with the remains of the last occupant.

"Might wanna check it for rips," says A'askvarii cheerfully, as he attempts to subtly diagnose whether the lump of brown clinging to the suit's inside pant leg is a chunk of exploded kidney or just the result of incontinence. "Or things could get a wee bit messy."

No further explanation is needed. Swallowing, Kraglin holds his suit up and inspects the rubbery coating. How old is this thing anyway? In Nova systems, the corps have upgraded to single-piece headsets, which contain an internal air supply and cover the body in a transparent pressurized forcefield; which, according to the rumour mill, feels comparable to a sensual full-body tickle. Fuck, with one of them things on you, you could go for spacewalks naked. Some ambitious young recruits had been known to.

Kraglin wonders what happens if he finds a tear. Does he sit this one out? Do they carry a patch kit? Does he get chucked out anyway, and hold his breath?

Horuz squeezes through the cockpit door, girth increased by the extra layer of rubber around his waist. His helmet's off, so they suffer the full delight of his bloodshot stare. "Quit fuckin' around, rookie. Hatch opens in one minute."

Kraglin, running worried fingers around the suit's scuffed elbow patches, gulps and obeys. He's still struggling with locking the helmet into the pressurised seal when Horuz starts the ten-second countdown, and almost garrottes himself in his desperation to pull the hood into place. A'askvarii clucks her tongue – it sounds fuzzy over the internal comm – and takes over, batting his fumbling hands away. The suit clicks closed as Horuz says 'zero'.

Then the floor drops out from beneath them, and there's nothingness.

* * *

Space is an ocean in the sky.

That's what they teach you in the slum academy on Hrax, which commandeers a smog-saturated space under the aqueduct once a week, using wrecked rocket parts for blackboards and dictating to their audience of grubby street-children from ancient, carbon-age books. But that's only because these are the kids who ain't never gonna afford a ship ride; the kids who are born and who die in the ghettos. They're not planetbound – but they might as well be.

Kraglin isn't one of them. Not anymore. He likes to think he never was: that he's always been different, that he's always had his eyes set on something bigger, something _more_. But nevertheless – out here, drifting through the deep, surrounded by nothingness in its purest and most absolute form, Kraglin's mind swims back to those words, as hideously inaccurate as he now knows them to be.

 _Space is an ocean_. He can only pray that it doesn't drown him.

"Oi, rookie." Udonta's voice, scratchier than ever through the comm device. He sounds muffled, far-away. Unreal. "We're moving out."

Kraglin nods, forgetting that he can't see it, and continues to watch the endless void. Space is so dark that it must have substance. If he could roll up his sleeves, run his fingers through it, surely he'd feel fibres running over his skin? Touch the silky black grain?

A gloved hand cuts off that train of thought. It hooks onto his elbow, squeezing hard enough to be felt through the synthetic second-skin; an aching anchor to reality. Kraglin is dragged forwards by a pulse of Udonta's rocket-boots, drifting across the silent soundscape of far-off stars. The other Ravagers are ahead. The burning jets of their rocket boots glimmer like cat eyes. Distance is meaningless; the memorial satellite hovers at once close enough to cup in his hand and a thousand miles away. Kraglin's mind is numb with wonder and awe. He shakes it away when Udonta speaks again, this time rough and quiet – "It gets better, y'know."

Kraglin has remember how to formulate a reply. "What d'you mean?"

"Space. This." Udonta waves at the frozen, fathomless chasm. From the lack of Horuz and the Kronan's gut-laboured breathing, they're on a private line. "Spend enough time in it, and it don't seem so…" His voice trails off. Kraglin can't see his expression through the black glass of the helmet, but he twists to face him anyway, moving like a swimmer in saltwater.

"What?"

"Aw, y'know." Udonta's boots vomit another amber flare – although if he's trying to drown out their conversation, his efforts are kinda redundant. Vacuum, and all. Kraglin smiles to himself.

"Scary?" he offers.

Udonta's flightpath stutters. "I was gonna say _big_."

Kraglin's smile, safe behind the inch of solar-protected plexiglass, grows. "Mm-hm."

The crackle of a comm-switch being flicked. "Hurry the fuck up, lovebirds," Horuz snaps. "Or I take both your cuts."

There's a moment of silence – absolute silence, unbroken by the sputter of static from a comm. It eats at Kraglin, gnawing on his mind like a parasitic leech. He has to focus on the jet-boots ahead to prevent himself from being swallowed. Then Udonta growls and shoves his shoulder, sending him into a yawing spin that's more dizzying than any rollercoaster. "Put yer own jets on, rookie," he says, pulling ahead. "I ain't draggin' you the whole damn way."

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 **Thanks for the lovely reviews! They motivate me like nothing else. Please don't ever feel shy about leaving them - no matter how big or small, gushing or concise, I treasure them all. I'm so pleased that people are liking this fic; I can't even put it into words.**

 **And I'm still slogging through prompts over at write-like-an-american on tumblr. They maaaay get uploaded here if I do enough (and can be bothered to edit them). Who knows! :D**


	11. Chapter 11

**In which Kraglin goes tomb raiding, and the author overplays the Indiana Jones parallel.**

 **Guess who's laptop broke. Ugh. Thankfully I have this fic saved! Still, very irritating, and I've lost a lot of other stuff. It's been one of those awful days where everything goes wrong - my laptop broke, then my charger broke, then my headphones and my bike so I was late for my first day at work... Must've done something wrong in a past life. :'( Still, have fic. I hope you've all had better days than me! x**

* * *

The memorial is carved from cool white glass, frosted to opaqueness. Kraglin listens to the commands being muttered over the comm, then says "Gravitize!" feeling like an action hero in some cheesy Xandarian space-flick. The thump, as his jets switch off and his boots lock on, is soundless, -but it reverberates through his entire body from head to toes. Kraglin pats himself down, making sure all limbs are attached – he's stuck to a solid surface, which is something, but is also aware that said surface is still hurtling through the void with him attached to it. Everything's hazy and uncertain, as if he might have lost a couple of vital organs along the way.

"Greenie!" Horuz shouts from ahead. "Next time you slow us up, we leave ya!" And if space is vast and terrifying, the thought of being _alone_ in it is infinitely worse. Kraglin runs over, the boots letting him have just enough lift to fly for an extended stride before bringing him crashing down.

It's… oddly liberating. He's never had the chance to run through a meadow or a forest or any of that shit – conurbation kid, and all. But he imagines it might be something like this. Only, y'know, less bottomless abyss swallowing you from all sides.

For some reason, the Ravagers have waited for him rather than heading into the tomb. Kraglin sucks his cheeks, surprised. He'd have thought that they'd want to get this over with as fast as possible, before their presence was detected and reinforcements dispatched. When he reaches the small crowd, the large figure that he recognises as belonging to Horuz waves him up to the front, then turns him by the shoulder to point at the tomb's open mouth.

"Go on then," he says, nudging him with the tip of his gun. Kraglin looks around the circle, but can only see his own reflection in the blank black slabs of glass. He can't tell which one's Udonta, but the Kronan at least is recognisable, and so he focusses on him.

"Um. I'm going first?"

The Kronan shrugs. "Sorry kid. Everyone's gotta go first sometimes." That's what he says. What Kraglin hears, however – _you don't have a name yet; ergo, you're expendable_ – is another matter entirely.

"Seriously?" he asks them. "I've got two days before I'm named."

Horuz leans in. "Then you'd better get a move on, if ya want to make it back to ship in time." _If you want to make it back to ship at all_ is unspoken, but then again, it doesn't really need to be said. Kraglin holds his ground a moment. Then grabs Horuz's plasma pistol – ignoring the warning snarl – and marches into the tomb. The Ravagers peel after him.

"Map's on your wrist," Kronan reminds him. Kraglin nods. It's impossible to tell how far the different voices are through the comm – but Kronan's unmistakably bringing up the rear. He just hopes they don't have to retreat in a hurry. Starting off at a slow pace, he pulls up the schematics, and rotates them until they start to coalesce in his brain. He thinks he's got the knack when a palm claps down on his shoulder, preventing him from taking his next step.

"This is a shit plan, Horuz!" Udonta yells, yanking him back. "The kid can't even read a fuckin' map!"

"I can too!" Kraglin retorts. He windmills his arms to catch his balance, and frees himself from Udonta's deathgrip with a duck and a twist. "What the fuck is your fuckin' _problem_?"

Udonta's finger jabs the front of his helmet, glove-grip squeaking on the glass. "My _problem_ is that you're gonna get us all blown sky-high! Watch where you're walkin', would ya?"

"I _was,_ before ya grabbed me –"

Udonta wordlessly points ahead of them. Kraglin follows the gesture, sees nothing but an octagonal corridor studded with asymmetrical crystals and a misty white floor, and turns back to relate his findings in as offensive terms as possible – to be met with a firm hand on the back of his helmet, which forces him to look again. "You dumb fuck," Udonta hisses. "Don'tcha know a pressure pad when ya see one?"

The section of floor ahead is possibly – _possibly_ ¬– a scant fraction of an inch higher than those around it. Kraglin jeers. "That ain't nothing."

The hand on his helmet delivers an open palmed slap. "Why don't you _tread on it_ then, and see? Just give the rest of us who don't wanna die today enough to time to get clear."

A-hole. But he might just have a point. Kraglin scowls at him anyway, and takes several steps back, shuffling into the Ravagers behind him and intending to take the panel at a running jump. Once again, he's halted, this time by Udonta's groan. "You gonna leap that without knowin' what's on the other side, rookie? Fuck. This is why I work alone."

"Udonta!" snaps Horuz. "This's a learnin' experience! Let the rookie learn!"

"Let him blow his legs off, more like." Udonta's helmet shakes from side to side, like he can't believe how they're all this stupid. "Look, it ain't hard, kid. The wall's not boobied – so you put yer foot on it like _so_ –" He demonstrates, the stomp vibrating soundlessly through the airless compartment. "Then ya just say 'gravitize' whenever you move onto a new plane." Udonta lifts his other boot, slowly turning horizontal, and waves his hands in a non-verbal 'voila'. Kraglin half-expects him to bow. "Simple. Even you can't fuck it up."

High praise indeed. Kraglin can't bring himself to thank him, but he recognises good advice when he hears it, even hidden under a gruff tone. And Udonta's the only one who'd spoken up. He nods at Udonta, sets his sole against the slope, and carefully picks his way up the wall. He hears the others follow, whispers of 'gravitize' filtering through the fizz of white noise. After scrutinizing the floor beyond, Kraglin judges it safe to take his weight and hops lightly down. There's no dissuasion from Udonta, and no explosion. He waits a second to make sure, then releases his breath and starts to walk. He can do this, he reminds himself. Just two more days.

"Damnit," one of them mutters. It sounds like A'askvarii-girl. "Figs said she was gonna chip me in if he didn't make it, as well." Kraglin pretends not to hear. Udonta's a solid presence at his back, acting as his eyes and communicating the hazards ahead through a system of prods, slaps and hard flicks.

"Slice field," he says, pointing out a shimmer at neck-height. "Cut right through yer suit – you too if you ain't careful." Kraglin nods and makes to duck under it – but is pulled back by Udonta's grip on his bicep. " _Careful_ , I said." He checks behind him – the Ravagers are spread out, navigating their varying bulks through a section criss-crossed with alarmed wires. When Udonta deems they're too distracted to care, he leans in and activates the private comm. "Look. They _know_ yer gonna try and slip beneath – so what're they gonna trap next?"

So that's how this game works. Kraglin squats down, assessing the floor ahead of him – and spots the danger immediately. "There!" It's another pressure pad, smaller than the first and only differentiated from its surrounds by a centimetre. He's inordinately proud at having found it – and then prouder, when Udonta squeezes his arm and nudges him forwards.

"Git on with it, then."

He slips his helmet under the forcefield, then gravitizes to the wall while still in a squat. It's not his most graceful moment, and he suspects from the radio silence that Udonta is laughing at him from the privacy of his own suit. Least he has the decency not to broadcast it to the whole damn team.

Kraglin's on a roll. He spots the next trap – a series of nozzles that will start spitting acid when anyone walks beneath them – all on his lonesome. Thinking of a way around it is rather more difficult – he can't just gravitize his way through this one. He glances at Udonta and receives a stoic shrug. Alright. No help here. No problem. A quick inspection of the mechanism reveals how it operates – sensors are set besides every spout, directed at the floor. Unavoidable and deadly. But… not necessarily to _them_.

"Anyone got anything they won't miss?" Kraglin sends down the line. It's what Udonta's been waiting for – he fishes in the pocket of his suit and pulls out two empty clips from a projectile-age rifle. Heaven knows why he's got them, or from where; but at least they'll come in handy now. Kraglin grabs them with a grateful grin, hidden by his visor. He lobs them, one after the other, approximately five seconds apart, skittering to the corridor's end. The first one is vaporized. The second, though…

"Cool," he breathes.

Udonta presses a third bullet clip into his palm. "Ready?"

Kraglin's chest is loose and tight at the same time. His leg muscles tense in preparation. He realises, through the rush of adrenaline, that he's _having fun_.

"Hell yeah," he growls, and throws the clip.

He hits the end of the corridor not three seconds later, Udonta on his heels. The A'askvarii is next line – she skitters to a halt just outside of the sensor's range, and starts turning her belt pouches inside out in search of a suitably worthless sacrifice. The eureka hits at around the same time that the A'askvarii finds her scapegoat – a broken rubber pipe that looks like it's been yanked off an M-ship engine, then stuffed in a pocket to avoid discovery. He turns to Udonta with a gasp.

"That's why ya collect all them little trinkets, ain't it? So you've always got something to throw!"

Udonta's black visor somehow manages to convey a deep-seated well of horror and contempt. "What the fuck is wrong with ya, rookie?"

Or, he could be mistaken. Kraglin sheepishly raises his hands. "Sorry. Note to self – don't melt Udonta's toys."

"They ain't _toys…_ "

A'askvarii bashes into the wall besides them; they synchronously step out the way. There's not much of a space between the edge of the acid-zone and the corridor's dead end. With him, Udonta and the A'askvari, there's only room for one more medium-sized Ravager, and that'll be pushing it. Horuz, next in line, seems to come to the same conclusion as Kraglin about the likelihood of his gut receiving an acid-bath, and waves them irritably onwards.

"What's his problem?" Kraglin asks, as Udonta and the A'askvarii start examining the wall. A'askvarii shrugs.

"He wants to be the one to lift the booty. As per fuckin' usual." She locates the latch, a shallow diagonal slit that runs from the wall's upper left corner to the centre. It requires a specific key-card, coded no doubt to relatives of the deceased – but the A'askvarii isn't dissuaded. One tentacle slinks around to unhook a strange machine from the back of her belt – "Forger," she explains – while the others continue to map out the gash. Kraglin watches in genuine interest as she holds the machine over the slot's furthest end, where the keycard would first be inserted. Six metal legs click out, bug-like, and suckers attach with an inaudible squish. The contraption's thorax splits and a broad red beam sweeps out, passing the hole once, twice. It buzzes the A'askvarii's comm in victory. There's an ungainly arpeggio of clicks. Then the box shudders, and a perfect plastic replica pops from its top like a credit chit from an automatic transfer machine.

"Awesome," says Kraglin, and means it. The A'askvarii effects an elegant shrug.

"Custom made," she answers, tugging the card free and swiping it while her other tentacles smoothly pat the machine on its backside and encourage it to detach. "Nicked it off an arms dealer on Knowhere. Ain't gonna find this nowhere else in the galaxy."

Kraglin makes an impressed noise. The Ravager fleet _looks_ rickety and rusted – especially to a kid brought up with Nova patrols zooming overhead like shoals of silvery minnows. But he's starting to realise that what he mistook for age is actually sturdiness, and that for all of their worrying creaks and groans, nothing short of a Kree warship is going to bring their Galleon down. And as for the tech… If there's one things Ravagers invest in, it's the thievery of the future. Shame they rarely seem to utilise their spoils. Or that they can't be bothered to nick a fucking space helmet.

The door opens on silent hinges, revealing a wide corridor and a flight of downwards-leading stairs, each white glass plank suspended seemingly midair, unlit and swiftly swallowed by the darkness. One misstep and they plummet. There's no landing in sight; heck, the fall could open into space itself.

Kraglin's never been more excited.

Udonta steps aside to let him pass. "Light's on your helmet, rookie," he says.

Kraglin walks with more confidence now. He sweeps each step as he goes, head swinging like a pendulum, boot pressing down an inch before he sets his weight. The bright beam blinks off imperfections in the crystal, alerting him to the false step that'll shatter into the shadows with him still on it; the tripwire; the pressure-sensor with the infra-red laser that would intensify enough to cook skin and bone. He's getting the hang of this. Whoever constructed this place meant to make it deadly to passing scavengers, but passable for anyone in possession of a map and the right set of keys. Their map's shite and their keys are cobbled forgeries – but they're Ravagers and they always get the prize.

They're Ravagers, and he's one of them.

There's almost a skip in his step when he jumps from the last elevated platform, and sees the ornamental diamond coffin ahead. This place has obviously been visited, and recently – there's flowers bundled on a small alter, preserved indefinitely in the sterile atmosphere. A parcel of scented salts has been left besides a candle, in offering to an unknown god. Kraglin scopes the room as fast as his untrained eyes can. He turns up frivolity after frivolity, but as far as he can tell, none are rigged to go boom.

"We good to go?" he asks, just to be sure.

"We good to go." Udonta hops down besides him, smacking him between the shoulders hard enough to smart but not enough to knock him on his face. Kraglin can only assume that's praise. He takes the lead in bold strides, the pale circle from his headlight swooping across the array of treasures left in the skeleton's name, and picks his way towards the great glass menhir. Kraglin hangs back – just to make sure no axes swing down from the ceiling and snip off his head. Doesn't pay to be too careful. The A'askvarii brings up the rear. She whispers an awed curse as they pass a larger-than-life bust forged entirely of gold.

"Rich fuckers," she says, rapping on its forehead, and Kraglin wholeheartedly agrees. Rich motherfuckers with crap security, who in turn are going to make them rich. It's the circle of fucking life. This room is sealed and oxygenated – although all of them know better than to take their helmets off. Still, it's enough for Kraglin to tell that there's no hollow thunk from where the A'askvarii's tentacles smack home. Damn thing's solid as a Kronan's hide.

Now, that's an idea.

"Think yer Kronan friend could carry it on the way out?" Kraglin suggests. "If we, like, made him a sling or somethin'…"

Udonta, leaping up the steps to where the dead don's immobilized in a cloud of white-blue crystallised ice, is the one to answer – "If it slows him down, we leave 'em both. Focus on the job, rookie – s'worth more, anyway." He examines the ice around the man's stripped skull from all angles. From here, Kraglin can see the rainbows scattering through the air from where Udonta's light refracts through the gemstones lodged in the bone. Man's more mineral than animal, and Kraglin wonders how many of his shimmering modifications were made during life. "Although heaven knows why captain issued a whole team," Udonta continues, pulling a row of files from his belt and testing them one by one against the crystal egg. All make unpromising screeches, but not a single scar is left on the translucent surface. "I coulda cracked this one solo."

That's… a good point, actually.

Udonta must realise it; his shoulders hunch, and he jabs the last pick into the crystal with sudden ferocity. It snaps. One half goes sailing off at an angle, turning cartwheels through the glare of his and the A'askvarii's headlamps, and the other remains in Udonta's clenched fist.

"Damn bitch don't trust me no more."

Kraglin and the A'askvarii decline to comment. Udonta snorts, tosses the other half of the pick, and stands so that his head's on level with the dead man's chin. "C'mon then," he says to his empty sockets, giving the chrysalis a kick for good measure. "Let's get this over with."

He whistles. The arrow shoots from its sheathe, which has been lashed to the outside of Udonta's suit for convenience. It slices into the rock like it's cutting butter on a hot day. There's a silence, broken only by the sweet high tone and the sound of sawing crystal. The arrow finishes its journey and returns to Udonta's belt. For a moment, the column remains intact. Then, as if in slow motion, the don's head tips on the bony vertebrae of his neck, bringing the top half of the coffin with it. Udonta has to jump out of the away to avoid a gristly squish. Somewhat improbably, the crystal shatters when it hits the top step, and the gem-inlaid skull bounces free. It lands grinning at the bottom of the stairs. The ruby circlet ringing its crown gleams brighter than fresh-spilt blood.

Kraglin stares at it. It stares back. "So that worked, I guess," he says.

Udonta stoops to pick it up, shooting him an eloquent finger. Of course, that's when the alarm goes off.

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 **Cliffhanger. Mwahahahaa.**

 **Drop me a comment if you've enjoyed this fic! I really appreciate them. 3**


	12. Chapter 12

**In which the Indiana Jones vibe increases, and That Jackass gets to be a big damn hero.**

 **I forgot to update on this site, because I'm awful. I'm on AO3 (Write_like_an_American) and tumblr (lairofthebunyip or write-like-an-american) and I tend to be better at updating there. So if anyone actually reads this on here... I'll keep up the updates here because is the ultimate nostalgia-site for me, and I love it to bits. But I may occasionally forget. Also, if you follow me on AO3/tumblr you get all the art which accompanies this story, which I can't upload here!**

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Kraglin's first instinct is to run. He clamps down on it, checking with A'askvarii and Udonta – you never know, perhaps this alarm means _freeze or die_ , or perhaps the entire floorspace has become a pressure pad, or –

A'askvarii's already halfway up the stairs. Udonta sprints past fast enough to give him whiplash. "The hell you waitin' for?" he yells. Kraglin spares a wistful salute for the golden bust, and follows.

They pound towards the light. Whatever delicate, invisible structure is holding the stairway intact has started to shake, and Kraglin's too distracted keeping his balance to remember which of the steps are booby-trapped. He leaps the first two on instinct, following Udonta and the A'askvarii. But a tremor throws him off-centre when the other two dodge the false stair. Kraglin crashes straight through it. The platform crumbles under his heel and deposits him into freefall.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is animal terror. In that second he is utterly, irrevocably certain that he is going to die.

Udonta's too far away to reach him. Kraglin sees his hand falter with the realisation before he even tries. A'askvari-girl has reached the top of the steps, where Horuz and the rest have crowded through, and is shoving them backwards, scrabbling at the Kronan where he's blocking the escape. No help from there, either. The last thing Kraglin sees before he tips back below the level of the stair above is Udonta's blank black visor, his reflection shrinking out of view.

 _This is it_ , he thinks. _Congratulations to Figs._ He hopes, in a final and surprising burst of altruism, that the A'askvarii gets that cut.

Then there's a whistle.

And pain. A lot of pain.

It pierces Kraglin's chest like – well, like a radioactive arrow. The momentum's enough to drag him that half metre to the step above, pinning his torso like a bug on a corkboard. Gravity's still in effect though. Body steeped in agony, Kraglin can't muster the muscle control to grab onto the white platform through which the arrowhead is pierced. His eyes rolls back as he slips down the shaft. The metal's stopped glowing, at least, so it's not burning through him. But there's still not enough friction and too much weight, and the shaft puckers the surface of the suit as he slides. Sharp metal fletching digs into the scrawny meat of his pectoral, from the inside. Ow, ow, _ow._ Fucking hell. If Udonta's trying to mercy-kill him, can't he at least do it right…?

Kraglin slides free, followed by a long string of blood. Apparently, the lack of radiation also results in a lack of cauterization.

It takes him a moment longer to realise that he's not falling. And another to realise why.

Kraglin cracks his bleary eyes and looks up into Udonta's mask. "Hey," he slurs. Udonta, more concerned with the effort it takes to hold a lanky Hraxian deadweight by one arm, grunts. He kneels on the step, arrowhead piercing the luminescent marble perilously close to his knee. He's grabbed Kraglin by the wrist with both hands. Now, shoulders straining, he hauls his limp ass up and over, onto solid-ish ground.

"You better thank me for this," he huffs. Kraglin tries, and fails. Words are becoming difficult, losing form. His tongue's numb and, for some reason, it's getting harder to breathe. _Oh yeah. Hole in the lung._ It's funny, that he can forget that.

Anyway, there's no way he's thanking him just yet. So for now, Kraglin takes Udonta's muttered words as an order not to die. His head rolls on his neck as Udonta rearranges them, manoeuvring clumsily while keeping balanced on the narrow, trembling step. He loops Kraglin's arms across one shoulder, his torso plastered to Udonta's suit by the increasing slick of red. Around them, the mausoleum rocks as if it's caught in a cosmic storm.

"Alright, rookie. Let's getcha outta here."

With a grunt and a 'hup!' Udonta stands, hefting Kraglin over his broad back in a fireman's lift. He runs for the exit. Kraglin wheezes, throat helplessly opening and closing. He's breathing but there's no air going in. A massive weight is crushing his chest, and being bounced about like a blood-filled medi-bag that's sprung a leak isn't helping. Udonta's helmet thuds off his ribcage, and Kraglin sucks in a gasp on instinct – then regrets it, as it sends him into a fit of coughs.

Coughing is, if anything, worse than the initial stabbing. Kraglin's being dissected from within, and the racking heave of his body dredges up a mouthful of blood, tasting so strongly of copper that it makes his tongue ache. It dribbles down his chin and smears over the inside of the visor, slick and warm.

"Shit!" he hears A'askvarii say. The door's shut behind her, Horuz and the rest already stumbling back through the maze of traps and impromptu acid-showers. The commlink is right next to his ear, but she might as well be lightyears away.

"You got a patch?" Udonta asks, breathless. "Can't take him out there when he's got a hole in his suit."

The fact that Kraglin's deflating lung _isn't_ the biggest of their concerns is telling. Kraglin's vision swims over Udonta's dirty space-boots, and he concentrates on counting the laces as his body desperately tries to tell him that he's drowning on dry land. It… doesn't work.

Udonta kneels and rolls him off his shoulders – Kraglin's chest protests, and he chokes weakly on blood. There's hands fumbling along the seams of his suit, a tentacle wrapped around his waist to hold him steady as a flap of adhesive leather is smoothed over the arrowholes front and back. But Kraglin doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything, nothing at all – nothing except the rising flood of panic, as the crush in his chest cavity increases with every breath.

"Damn it," Udonta mutters. A steady hand grips his helmet, keeping his head tipped back. "He ain't good."

The A'askvarii's peering down at him from a million miles away. "He gonna make it to Doc?" she asks. There's a lot built into that question. It's old Ravager code – a law system comprised of only two maxims: steal from everybody except each other; and if you fall behind, you get left. A'askvarii-girl's under no obligation to help him. Udonta neither. Heck, Kraglin doesn't have a name yet – the Ravagers can walk away and find another sad, desperate sack of shit to fill his bunk and wear his boots. For a moment, he's so certain that they're going to leave him that he forgets to fight for breath.

But Udonta's hand tightens on the helmet's ribbed rear. He muscles A'askvarii aside, scooping his other arm under Kraglin's knees and making to hoist him up once again. "He'd better fuckin' make it," he growls. Then, to Kraglin – "You hearing this, rookie? I just saved yer worthless hide, and I want some goddam gratitude, so don't you _dare_ die on me now."

He sounds more angry than concerned. Anyone else, Kraglin would assume it was feigned. With Udonta, who can tell?

A'askvarii-girl considers them for a long moment. Or rather, she turns her helmet to face them, while considering racing on ahead and leaving them to die surrounded by blaring sirens and the rumble of destabilising crystal. Udonta, from behind the opaque plaque of his visor, glares back, stubborn and fierce. The A'askvarii's tentacles curl. Then she pushes out a deep sigh – Kraglin is unspeakably envious – and grabs him around the ankles, halving his weight between them.

"C'mon then," she says. "Let's roll."

A scrap of the broken coffin and a fourth bullet clip see them through the acid trap. They take it in two shifts; the A'askvari arranges Kraglin on Udonta's back, giving him a slap on the thigh and an order to hold on tight before bringing up the rear. The tomb is shaking properly now. Kraglin's vision greys and his blinks get longer, but he sees the cracks snaking after them, rupturing the smooth marbelled bed.

"Gravitize!" Udonta yells, jumping onto the wall. He runs them up and over the pressure pad and forcefield combination, then swears at the sea of laser beams ahead loud enough to jerk Kraglin back into semi-consciousness.

"Just run straight through 'em!" calls A'askvarii-girl. "What more can go wrong!"

 _That's a shit plan_ , Kraglin attempts to say, but is restricted by the deluge of blood filling his airway. Udonta, on the other hand, hops on the wall like a demented puppy. "Great idea!" he bellows. Then drops his head between his shoulders like he's aiming a headbutt, and charges.

If Kraglin wasn't busy coughing up his lungs, he'd probably throw up.

The lasers jar and break around them. There's another wail of alarms, more deafening than the first, and –

The wall beneath Udonta's boots shakes.

Then again.

Then again.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" A'askvarii-girl streams past them in a flurry of tentacles. Kraglin raises his head, just a fraction, and makes the monumental effort of looking over his shoulder. Then regrets it. Shit indeed. All down the booby-trapped corridor, transparent gates are falling. They're thinner than a planetbound vessel's windscreen, but Kraglin's not fooled – judging from the way the whole damn satellite skitters about whenever one drops, they're landing heavy enough to slice a man in two.

"Hurry up!" The A'askvarii screams at them. The shakes are growing, like earthquakes before an eruption. Closing in. "Come on, come on, come on –"

Udonta ploughs forwards. The impact of his boots jars what little oxygen Kraglin can retain right back out of him again. The end of the corridor yawns, starlight unprotected by any atmosphere and prickling at his vision; from the way Udonta's tensed, every muscle straining, that black gash has shrunk to the pinpoint focus of his world.

The second-to-last doorway clips Udonta's heel. His yell of "degravitize!" is swallowed by the A'askvarii's shriek. They fling themselves forwards and tumble into the dark.

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 **Hope you enjoyed~ Please do leave comments. I'm rather down at the moment and every one cheers me up, no matter how small/nonsensical. Putting a lot of effort into a story and not getting much back is always saddening.**


	13. Chapter 13

**In which Kraglin is most definitely not dead.**

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"Oi. Rookie. You dead?"

 _Yes_ , Kraglin thinks. He's proven wrong; someone pokes him in the forehead, hard enough to make his nose wrinkle.

"C'mon, I'm talking to ya, you ass. Don't you fall asleep on me. Show a bit of respect." If he's dead – or at least, dying – can't they just let him get on with it? Apparently not; the poke reoccurs, significantly harder. "Oh, so you're just gonna lay there, huh? No comeback?"

He recognises that voice. Or perhaps it's just that brand of affronted dickishness. He can't put it to a name, but… _Jackass._

There's a loud snort. "You really gonna die here? Pathetic. Kids these days, I swear to –"

Kraglin licks his cracked lips. "Nuht a kid." It takes all his strength.

The poker, whoever they are, crows in delight and claps their hands. Kraglin might not be able to breathe, but he can still smell their breath; sour and mildly fetid, right up against his face. They're too close, intruding uncomfortably on his personal space. Kraglin's smothered by their presence without a single touch. "What was that? You say something, _kid_? You telling me you ain't dead after all? That you ain't some sad lil' bitch that I had to lug about on my back like a fucking _baby_? Huh?"

That's who it is. Kraglin gurgles in a breath to tell Udonta to go fuck himself. He gets halfway before he chokes.

"Look atcha," says Udonta in mock disgust. "Drowning in your own blood. Heck lad, I ain't seen such a sorry sight since..." He trails off. Kraglin uses the reprieve to slide back towards the numb darkness of unconsciousness, but is prevented by a muttered curse and the sharp introduction of a palm to his cheek. _Smack_. Oddly, the pain doesn't register as much as he thinks it should – but it still jerks him out of the encroaching stupor.

"Stop slappin' me," Kraglin groans.

"Stop _dying_ then!" shouts Udonta, and gives his cheek a ringing back-hand in the other direction. Kraglin's head thumps sideways onto the bed. He wants to tell Udonta that he's not helping, but can't find the air. Udonta continues his rant, undaunted, leaning heavily on the platform besides him. "Doc's on his way. But y'know what? If ya don't open your eyes _now_ , I'm gonna comm and tell him not to bother."

Kraglin is, for a moment, tempted to ignore him. He's fairly sure that if Udonta wanted him dead, he would be by now – the man's definitely had enough chances. But then he remembers that he's equally sure of his inability to guess when Udonta's bluffing.

Alright, he might not kill him himself. But if he thinks there ain't a prayer, that Kraglin's drifting aimless through a comatose sea and isn't ever gonna wake up again… Of course he'd give up hope. Who wouldn't? Reinvigorated, Kraglin makes a co-ordinated effort to force his eyes open. He succeeds only in pushing more blood out of his airways. Udonta, however, takes this as a hint to continue his taunts.

"Croak now, rookie, and ya die nameless with no friends. That ain't no way to go! Don'tcha want to tell me your name, so I can cuss you out proper-like?"

He does. He does more than anything. But his mouth's not responding. His throat's been reduced to a vessel for pumping blood out of his ailing lungs. Kraglin coughs weakly. The movement's enough – just – to make his eyelids twitch. Udonta must have caught it.

There's a creak of leather as he checks the perimeter. Then, after ensuring nobody's watching, a thumb skates across Kraglin's underlip and smears the bloody spit away. Udonta's skin is a little chillier, a little tougher than Kraglin's own; calloused and scarred too. Kraglin lets his mouth fall open, and Udonta starts as his thumb brushes piranha-sharp teeth.

"Come on, you bastard," he hisses, close to his ear. His voice is rougher than ever, gravel and gasoline. "Just one more goddam minute. If ya wake up after the Doc's done with you, you can tell me your name a whole day early, right there an' then."

Kraglin wheezes through his nose when the thumb retreats, face falling into the cup of Udonta's dry palm. They're back on the _Eclector_. Must be – no space gloves. All Kraglin remembers of the journey is pain and breathlessness, of Horuz calling him _ballast_ and Udonta whistling his arrow around them in an elegant, red-trailed death-dance until the big Ravager retreated swearing to the cockpit. He's grateful – or at least, he is until Udonta gives a cocky chuckle.

"And you can thank me too. I fuckin' deserve it, after everything I done for ya."

 _Still a jackass._

Somehow though, the fingers curling under his shaved temple leach what little irritation Kraglin can summon.

Then the door clicks open. Udonta's hand yanks away from his face, and Kraglin flops onto the gurney with a whoof, chest jarring. "Hey Doc," Udonta says, casual like he's meant to be here.

"Out the way, out the way…" There's a bustle of movement, of chairs screeching on a metal floor and leather flapping over leather. Then hands – four of them – prising and prying at Kraglin's chest. At the doctor's direction, a second set of limbs – tentacular this time; is it A'askvarii-girl? – lift Kraglin's arm and pat the inside of the elbow until a vein raises. "I'll sedate him before I operate," says Doc, all in a rush. "He's nearly named, after all." Then, tone dipping: "Sir… I mean, Udonta. With, uh, all due respect…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm leavin'."

Kraglin isn't overly fond of needles. Isn't overly fond of any stabby things that aren't his knives, to be honest. But this might be the last chance he gets. He slaps his mental self into shape, breath rattling, and forces his eyes open so he can affix his gaze to Udonta's retreating skull. He can't call out to him. Can't whistle or wave or shape his mouth around a single word. But Udonta raises a hand anyway, without looking, implant glimmering dark as the blood around Kraglin's mouth.

"See ya tomorrow, rookie," he says. The medbay doors whoosh shut after him. Kraglin eyes droop, and he glides into blissful black before the needle pricks in.

Udonta never shows.

Kraglin is pissed. However, he's more pissed about the fact that he _is_ pissed than anything else. When the medbay door finally bings (the chirpy electronic squeak that means someone other than Doc, a four-armed guy of indeterminable species who prowls silently through his territory and delights in making Kraglin jump, has activated the doorpanel) he scrambles upright, beaming – only to be met with Isla. The smile falls off his face.

"Hello to you too, Rookie," Isla says, eyebrows raised. She saunters on in without invitation, hoops bouncing in her glossy brown forehead. "Aw, you expectin' someone else? Morlug's got better things t'do than pine over your sorry ass."

'Better things to do' translates as 'dubious stains to scrub'. Kraglin grimaces, one hand pressed to his tender chest.

"She piss off bo'sun again?" he wheezes.

Isla's eyebrows winch higher. The movement is accompanied by a percussive clatter as every one of her forehead piercings flips and resettles. "The first mate, ya mean? Dagada the so-called Detenator?" Of course. Udonta's demotion. That had happened. How could he have forgotten? "- And yeah. Your girl's got a mouth on her a mile wide."

"She's not my girl," says Kraglin. "She's a friend." He's surprised to find that he means it. Not that he wouldn't say _no_ to getting his hands under that tight leather skirt, but…

Isla chortles and squeezes his shoulder – thankfully, on the opposite side to where the arrow passed through. The hole (patched, vacuumed, swabbed, stitched, and liberally doused in antiseptic) twinges nevertheless. Kraglin fails at stifling a wince. "Whatever ya say, rookie. She'll probably be along on her lunchbreak though, so don'tcha go fallin' asleep or dying on us or nothing." She narrows her eyes. "You ain't gonna die now, right? Doc patched you up good?"

Kraglin ruefully strokes the edge of the bandage. "I gotta air-tube stickin' out my armpit. And I've been pissin' in a pot. But Doc's not the sort to waste no shit on a dead man. So got lucky, I guess."His sentences are short, clipped. But that's more down to tight breath than irritation; Isla's grin is buoyant and he can't stay grumpy, not even when she chucks him under the chin and the stud in her finger scratches like a cold, horny wart.

"Lucky... You're right about that," she says. "Nice to have ya back in the land of the living. I was worried Figs was gonna win that damn bet."

Kraglin smiles. "You n'me both."

Time passes quickly with Isla around to bounce snark off of. They wind up sitting opposite each other on Kraglin's makeshift bed – which is little more than a metal pallet clothed in non-stick sheets, surrounded by a hodge-podge assortment of medical equipment that's been looted from every damn Empire in the galaxy. Isla toes her boots off when Doc waves a scalpel, after five increasingly irritated threats have gone ignored. The socks underneath are patched, worn, and not much cleaner. She chatters away, filling him in on the latest gossip – Kraglin's amazed that so much can change over two days, but that's Ravager life for you. Live fast, die young; miss an hour, miss a whole fucking soap opera. Apparently, Dagada's been swelling into his new posting like a pussy blister.

Speaking of which –

"Your bandage's off," Kraglin blurts. It's halfway through Isla's impersonation of the first mate as he chews out an unrepentant Morlug – which he's sure is excellent, but having never spoken to the man, it's hard to tell. He supposes he can be forgiven the non sequitur, what with medication and all; Isla certainly doesn't seem to mind. Her mouth keeps blabbering for a second, then her brain catches up and she turns her dark palm over for inspection.

"Yah. Infection's gone – them new antibacterials Doc put me on sorted it right out. Hell, give it a week and I'll be able to repierce it!"

"You'll do no such thing!" called Doc from where he's been unobtrusively eavesdropping as he reorganises his collection of rusty bone-saws. "Next time, I amputate!"

Isla carries on like she hasn't heard. "Anyway. Ain't here to chat about me. It's your second time in the medbay in three-odd days, and both because of Udonta." She whistles; whether it's in mockery of Udonta or himself, he can't tell. "Heck rookie, the fuck did ya do to piss him off so bad?"

"You're the one who dumped me in his bed," snaps Kraglin. Then sighs and toys with the corner of the bandage. "Anyway. This time he weren't mad. Not much. Only when he thought I weren't gonna make it." The door pings again. Isla's gaze fixes beyond him, but she nods along so Kraglin doesn't bother to turn and look. "He saved my fuckin' life, y'know? If he hadn't shot me… I would've died. Right there and then. In the tomb of some old rich mob codger. Sure, it _hurt_. But…" He can _feel_ himself smiling, he can _feel_ it. "But it was kinda awesome, too."

"Whatever you say, rookie," says Isla, still looking over his shoulder. The corner of her mouth is twitching.

Kraglin is, perhaps, still a little high. He'll blame it on that later. "I think he likes me," he muses. Because heck. How many folks can say they've been shot by Udonta's arrow and survived? "And… and he ain't so bad neither. I mean. Sure. He _acts_ all grumpy. But –" Isla's mouth is really, _really_ twitching. And she's holding her breath too. Kraglin squints at her. "Hey. You havin' a stroke or something?"

"Nope," says Udonta cheerfully. "She's just amazed you survived all that, only to die one day before you get named."

Kraglin freezes. Then drops his head into his hands. "Y'know what? Don't bother. Just leave me a knife and I'll do the job for ya."

There's a laugh. Udonta ruffles his hair before Kraglin can duck away – although he still tries, and is rewarded with a stabbing blaze between his ribs. "Ow!"

"Don't bitch; ya did that to yourself." Udonta drags a metal stool over that's far too spindly to bear his weight, then proceeds to prove this hypothesis incorrect, tilting it onto its back legs and propping his boots besides Kraglin's ass. There's grease sliming his toecaps, and something organic, green and unidentifiable wedged in the left sole. "Anyway, I ain't supposed to kill no one in the medbay. Doc don't like it."

"Indeed, Doc does not," Doc agrees. "Doc would also appreciate it if you took your shoes off the bed, Udonta." Udonta just gets more comfortable. Hygiene, apparently, does not concern space pirates. Even hygiene of the medical variety. Kraglin looks at Udonta's boots, then up at the Doc.

"You, uh, didn't operate on me in this bed, did you…?"

Doc stares at him like he's been shot in the head rather than chest, one pair of arms folded over his belly while the others continue scouring orange powder from his sawblades. "No! I operated at you over _there_." He points to a gurney in the corner. It's completely open, no sealant cloth or medical-grade anti-bacterial glass. And it definitely hasn't been washed. Kraglin balks.

"So, you gonna scrub that down before the next person's dragged in, or…?"

There's that look again. "We're on a spaceship, boy! Water doesn't just _grow in stars,_ you know!"

So he's not going to die of a punctured lung, but the jury's still out on gangrene and blood poisoning. Great.

Udonta's boot pokes him in the thigh. "Cheer up, rookie. We'll steal a coupla crates of antibiotics next time we pass a medicentre."

If anything, Kraglin gets paler. "You mean… we don't have any? On ship?"

Isla pats his knee. "Sorry, kid. Think I used the last of 'em on my hand – woulda spared you half my needle if I'd known."

Because of course, needle-sharing's all fine and dandy. Kraglin is from Hrax; ergo, his immune system can take more of a pounding than most. It's still… _disturbing_ though, to know that they're facing serious injury on a biweekly basis and there's not enough vacc-shots to go around. "Ain't this the quartermaster's job?" he asks. "To keep us supplied, I mean?"

There's a sudden lull in noise – like the others are holding their breath. Isla is, for some reason, shaking her head in a universal abort motion. She jangles most distractingly, like one of them fancy bell-dancers in the Xandar parades. But the warning comes too late. Udonta sets his stool legs down with a clang.

"You can't do much when you ain't got nothing in the stock hangars to begin with," he growls. "This's what I've been talkin' about. I keep telling the captain that she needs to branch out – _expand_ our enterprise. Fuck knows, we got the guns and the manpower. But does she listen to me?" His demon-red eyes glare into Kraglin's, demanding an answer. Kraglin, unfortunately, doesn't have one to give. He wets his lips and wishes he had enough motion through his shoulders to shrug.

"Uh. No?"

Udonta _snarls_. "No she doesn't! Every fucking time. Damn bat can't take a word of good advice." His expression twists nastily. "And Dagada's worse. All bark and no bite, but _proud_ t'boot. Thinks he's better than the rest of us because of his fancy Nova education. Fuck that. Two years in a barracks don't make you no smarter than no one. Just more _annoyin'._ "

"Yondu," says Isla, glancing at the Doc. Kraglin's not sure if he's glad to be included in the discussion without a full vetting, or just plain terrified. Fuck, if he ends up implicated in a mutiny… But Udonta's off again before Kraglin can think of anything to change the topic, blue lips drawn up from his teeth.

"Sell-outs, the both of 'em," he spits. "Sending the Ravagers after easy prey when a fleet our size could take on Nova platoons… trawl the whole fuckin' outworlds! We could be bigger than the goddam Horde, but _no,_ Captain Jora and her pet _bitch_ Dagada have always gotta _play it safe_ …"

Isla smacks his shoe. "Shut it! If ya get tossed in brig again… If the Detonator's in charge of punishment…!"

"He can kiss my bright blue ass, that's what he can do." Udonta's teeth have been broken enough that they're probably as sharp as a Hraxian's. When bares them at Isla, glancing at Kraglin from the corner of his eye, it's like being caught in the peripherals of a hunting shark. "I don't give a shit if he smacks me about. Look, ya gotta admit it. Even the rookie can see this ain't right!"

Kraglin leans away. "Oh. Oh no. I ain't getting' involved –" He is, as usual, ignored.

Udonta takes his feet off the bed. He replaces them with his hands, leaning into their little circle. There's something earnest about his anger, Kraglin realises; a note of sincere gravity that's not there when Udonta's threatening him for the hell of it. Whatever he's doing, whatever he's planning, he's convinced that it's necessary. " _Things need t'change,_ Isla," he hisses. "Gimme a week and I'll be first mate again, and then…Well, I've been waiting for the old bag to croak long eno-"

Isla grabs Kraglin's pillow, which is, after a night spent sweating through drugged sleep, not the most pleasantly fragranced of objects, and wraps it around Udonta's face.

"Shut _up_ , I said. Not here. We don't talk about that here!"

Doc's still scrubbing at his saws. His movements pick up when he notices the lull in conversation. There's no telling how much he's heard, and Kraglin's neck hairs start to prickle. This could be bad. This could be really, _really_ bad. It could be worse if Isla actually smothers Udonta, and he ends up an accessory to murder as well.

"Hey," he says, breaking the near-silence of Udonta's scratchy, muffled swearing. "Who wants to know my name?"

He injects his voice with a little too much jubilance. Doc breaks his pretence at apathy to give him a weird look, but Udonta lifts his head out of the pillow with a grin.

"It's a day early," Isla starts, although she doesn't sound like her heart's in it. She gives immediately when faced with Kraglin's pleading stare – "Aw, what the heck. You've made it this far, you'll last another night."

That seems a little optimistic for Ravager standards. But Udonta's already nodding, fury diverted with toddlerish ease. "Let's hear it, rookie!"

Their faces are expectant, eager. This is it. The moment he's been waiting for. His breath is dry, and there is, for some reason, a lump in his throat. He's been looking forwards to this for so long that his tongue's forgotten the shapes of the words he needs to say; sounding them out is like being born again.

"Kraglin," he croaks. "I'm Kraglin. Kraglin Obfonteri."

Doc's cloth sends an uninterested scatter of rust to speckle the bloody tiles.

"Huh," says Isla.

"Weird," says Udonta.

But Kraglin doesn't care. His smile stretches to aching point, and he couldn't swallow it if he wanted to. _I'm Kraglin Obfonteri. And I'm a Ravager._

* * *

 **Please review!**


	14. Chapter 14

**In which Kraglin has a name, Udonta has an enemy, and Isla makes another bet.**

* * *

He wants Morlug to be the next person he tells. Failing that: everyone.

Isla has to explicitly forbid him from utilising the ship's comms to make an announcement, although Udonta is all for it. "You've met about a hundredth of the crew," he says, by way of explanation, "and only a tenth of them lot are gonna give a damn about who you are. But what the heck. It'll piss off Dagada."

"That," says Isla through a gritted smile, "is why we're not doing it." Her hair's all frazzled. It must be tiring, being the sensible one in the room – especially when Isla has had so little practice.

Doc gets tired of them now that Kraglin's not in need of immediate medical attention and Udonta's no longer spilling secrets liable to get him tossed out an airlock. They're hustled out the medbay through a combination of swearing, glowering, and four very insistent arms. Kraglin's got one elbow protruding at a right angle so his bicep doesn't bump the tube keeping his lungs inflated, and has been left with an order to return in a week to have it removed, and to try not to get himself mortally wounded again in the meantime.

For now though? He's going to find Morlug. And then he's going to bed.

Udonta saunters along on his tube-side. Kraglin's grateful – the march to his dormitory takes them past the canteen, along the central strut that joins one end of the ship to the other like a hollow rusty spine. The corridors go from jostling to jam-packed within seconds of leaving the lift (he doesn't want to contemplate a ladder right now, and thankfully Isla doesn't force the issue) – but with the ex-first mate and a senior Ravager besides him, the crowds part faster than a shoal before a shark. He's not elbowed once. Heck, he spots _Lizard Guy_ and his clique scurrying for the walls.

His bodyguards can't prevent people from _looking_ at him, however. No doubt wondering what an unnamed Hraxian rookie is doing on Udonta and Isla's heels. Usually, Kraglin'd be shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but right now he's too tired to care. And chilly. It's cold without coat or shirt, and the bandages do little to insulate. His strength drains with every wheeze pushed out of nose and tube. Rather than assessing the stares directed at him to discern whether they're curious, envious, or laced with animosity, Kraglin blocks out the lot and concentrates on placing one boot in front of the other.

Bed – yes. That's what he needs. But first…?

"Where's Morlug?" he asks, listing to the side Isla's assigned herself. She nudges his hip, letting him find his centre of balance again without providing any actual support. Ravagers are prideful bastards: if Kraglin can stay on his feet, he's expected to use them. Isla shakes her head.

"Oh no. You're headin' straight to bunk before you fall over." She sees Kraglin start to protest, and interrupts him before he can begin – "I've cleared yer duties for the rest of the day. But you're back on tomorrow – starting at the Bridge and all. I expect ya to be bright-eyed an' bushy-tailed and so forth."

The Bridge? _The Bridge?_ Kraglin gawps at her. "The hell do you want me on Bridge for? Cleaning?"

Isla's smile is hidden behind a curtain of brown ringlets as she shakes her head. "Nah. Because you got a brain on ya, Krags." This… is news to him. As is the nickname. He'll decide how he feels about that later. "Although damn," Isla continues, marching blithely onwards, "do you do a good job of hiding it. What with all these near-death experiences and everything." She's not wrong there. Kraglin has been through enough scrapes over the past month that he's started to challenge his own perception of his intellect. "And now you ain't an expendable no more – well, a little less expendable, anyways – we better find you something yer good at. I reckon you'll have an eye for the star-charts."

Udonta makes an undignified noise. "Have you seen this kid read a map? We'll wind up in _Chitauri_ territory if we let him nav."

Kraglin doesn't get a chance to protest. Isla dances ahead and sticks out a bandageless hand, smile wicked. "Wanna bet on it?"

Udonta almost slams Kraglin in the chest ( _fuck_!) with his eagerness to slap Isla's held-up palm. "You're on!"

"I thought we was past this," mutters Kraglin. Isla throws him a patronising look.

"Aw, Krags. We're never gonna be past this. Learn t'take a joke."

Kraglin would very much like to say that he _can_ take a joke, thank you very much; that in fact, he's been the butt of them since he strolled on board. Sure, perhaps it'd been naïve to hope that he'd be elevated to equal-status once he'd earned his name. But right now he's got a wind-tunnel bored in his chest and has lost (by his reckoning) half the blood in his body; the only things on his mind are comming Morlug and sleep.

Kraglin says none of this – mostly because the next moment, the milling Ravagers part from the _other_ direction, and everyone in the corridor remembers that they have a job to do elsewhere. Isla, Kraglin and Udonta are islands in a rushing river: Udonta with his hands in his pockets, staring disinterestedly at a vent in the overhead pipes; Isla subtly enticing Kraglin out of the oncoming Ravager's path; Kraglin blearily wondering what the heck's going on.

Clump, clump, clump.

A pair of boots advance. They're slow, sombre as a funeral beat, and clomp to a close-heeled halt under Kraglin's nose. Kraglin, with a fuzzy sort of clarity, remembers how he'd first encountered Morlug: brush in hand, soap fuzzing up her wrists, crouched over a stubborn shoe-scuff. His memory's pretty sharp, and for some reason, it's informing him that that scuff would fit perfectly beneath the boot that's parked under his nose.

"Lancia." Isla looks up – Kraglin supposes that's her surname: although why she shares it with one of the leading merchants in Xandar's bustling refugee district, he has no idea.

"Howdy sir," she says, smiling. From his angle, it looks more like a grimace. But perhaps that's the light. "How's life?"

"Excellent. Being first mate is certainly an invigorating experience." Udonta scoffs. Dagada swings around to face him, blinking as if he hadn't registered his presence. "Oh. Udonta – I didn't see you there."

It's petty. It's stupid. It's so _obviously_ just to get a rise out of Udonta – and judging by the unpleasant smile creeping onto Udonta's face, it's working. And really, _truly_ , Kraglin just wants to go to bed.

"'Scuse me," he says. Udonta's mouth, readying to spit some incendiary insult, snaps shut. Dagada – the yellow guy who's chopped off his jacket's sleeves at the shoulder to show off a host of scar-embellished tattoos, which Kraglin refuses to admit are just the tiniest bit cool – turns slowly. His heel creaks over the lumpy crisscrossed wires of the grate.

"And you are?"

"He ain't nobody," says Isla quickly. "Gettin' named tomorrow, in fact. But he's injured pretty bad. We're supposed to be gettin' him to his bunk, so –"

"I'm sure someone of lower rank could handle… _this_ ," Dagada cuts in, scanning Kraglin from his Mohawk to his unpolished bootcaps. Whatever the results of his assessment, they're not complimentary. "You Isla, at least, must have something important to be doing."

From a distance, Dagada cuts a pretty decent figure; all burly and golden and slathered in painted flames. However, once that space closes, this impression starts to falter. His eyes are a cold grey, the iris devoid of any blue or silver. Just lustreless circles; no colourful flecks, no hints of tone. Dead eyes. Eyes of a blind man or a corpse. They don't seem fitting for a guy who's nicknamed Detonator.

Kraglin meets them with the dull stagnation of the bone-tired. If he didn't have a hole in his lung and a tube in his armpit, he might have been afraid; as it is, all he can dredge up is irritation that this big goon is blocking the corridor.

"No biggie," he says. "I'll just walk myself." He leaves off the 'sir' in a moment of spite, deciding he can blame it on medication-daze if Dagada gets offended – he sure seems the type to. Then he scoots past Dagada, and continues on his way.

Udonta bursts out laughing.

Isla at least _attempts_ to corpse quietly, although she doesn't do an especially good job. Dagada freezes, stunned – unfortunately, not for long enough to let Kraglin escape. When his voice blares, it's louder than the alarm on his chronometer –

"Rookie! Back here! Now!"

Offence it is. Kraglin congratulates himself on an accurate character-read, and lopes lopsidedly towards them, being sure to give the still-cackling Udonta a flat look which contains a little too much mirth around the eyes.

"What?" he whines. Then, after deeming a long enough pause has passed to deliver insult– "sir?"

Dagada just _looks_ at him.

He would be formidable, but it's hard to take any threat seriously when Udonta's snickering in the background. There's something infectious about it – not least because Udonta spends half his time acting like the big scary space pirate he is and the other half more akin a hyperactive and filthy-minded toddler, which by itself is inherently amusing. But Kraglin's done enough tempting fate for a lifetime; the last thing he wants to do is take sides in a bid for captaincy. And so he sags, making himself look every bit the worn-out patient –

"Sorry, sir. I ain't used to this title-stuff yet."

"We ain't the Nova Corps," Udonta corrects him, wiping his eyes. "Only 'sirs' here are earned ones."

"It's a sign of respect," grits Dagada. "One you would do well to learn."

Okay. Kraglin might not want to take sides. But damn, if he doesn't _like_ Udonta a whole lot more.

He nods in placating agreement. "Right-o, sir. If that's that, can I fuck off now?"

Dagada's expression darkens further. Thankfully, his impending doom is cut off – by Isla, this time. "He's still high as a kite," she says, glowering at Kraglin with a look that clearly reads 'you'll be quiet if you know what's good for you'. "Ain't no point in dragging a drugged-up kid to the brig, is there?"

From the sneer on Dagada's face, he's tempted to try. "Yet, if you and Udonta have deigned him the presence of your company, perhaps his punishment could be a lesson to all of you."

Kraglin shrinks a bit inside. Shit. He hadn't even considered –

"You kidding me?" Udonta says. He scoffs through his teeth like Dagada's told a bad joke. "Kid ain't got a name yet. Doc asked Isla to drag him to his bunk cause she was getting her hand looked at, then I saw her and tagged along. As if we'd give two shits about him."

Dagada stalks into Udonta's space. He utilises every millimetre of the inch he has on him to loom. From the crook of Udonta's eyebrow, he's unimpressed. From the artery ticking in Dagada's neck, he knows it. "So you wouldn't object if I were to strap him up and whip him here and now?"

Udonta smiles sweetly. As sweetly as he can. It's not especially sweet, to look at or to smell, but it gets the point across. "Be my guest," he says. "I always knew you were a kinky bastard at heart." Aw _shit_. Dagada snarls. Before he can work up a word of reply though, Udonta's sticking his chin up in a way that makes him appear to grow a whole metre, dwarfing Dagada in fury alone, and hisses in his face – "You weren't expectin' _me_ to call you 'sir' too, were ya? C'mon, Dags. Even you ain't that stupid."

Kraglin sees Dagada's fists clench, and has a sudden awful premonition of Udonta's arrow embedding itself in the Xandarian's skull. Dang. He's already cleaned up one murder. With his chest in the state it is, he doesn't think he's got the strength to lug Dagada to an airlock. Surprisingly though, Dagada's the one to break their deadlocked stare.

"You're not worth it," he says. Then – of course – has to elaborate. "First mate's next in line to be captain, after all. Wouldn't want to get myself _demoted_ over a moment of idiocy."

For someone who's just made that jab, Dagada doesn't have much of a brain on him, either.

Udonta stares at Dagada for a long moment, eyes magma pools. The Xandarian's started to sweat; his cruel smile is twitching with the strain of holding itself in place. Nervously flexing his upheld arm – which by now, is noticeably stiff – Kraglin judges the distance to the nearest airlock and bites down a groan. But the whistle he's expecting never comes.

"You ain't worth it neither," says Udonta quietly. Kraglin can _smell_ Dagada's relief; animal and odorous, belied by the feral slant of his jaw. "Now get the fuck outta here, before I change my mind."

Dagada postures a moment longer. But really, there's no standing up to Udonta. Not when he gets like this. Not when you know how much damage a single whistle could do. He retreats, but not without a snarl – "This isn't the end of this, scum."

"Watch me piss my boots," says Udonta. His smile's creeping back, lividly victorious, and Kraglin feels himself emulating it. Dagada's lips roll back around a set of square, tombstone teeth, furrier than usual Ravager fare and just a little too big for his face. He includes all three of them in his parting glare.

"That's it," Udonta mutters under his breath as he marches away. "Run to mummy." Kraglin's just glad he doesn't shout it at Dagada's shrinking back.

Really, he should keep his distance. Thank Udonta and Isla for their company, but politely request that he make the remainder of the journey to his quarters by himself, because while he may be in danger of tripping and re-collapsing his lung, the probability of becoming embroiled in fatal skirmishes with the Ravager High Command is significantly higher when they're around. Udonta's obviously involved in… _something_ , something pertaining to Dagada and Jora and a soon-to-be-vacated captaincy. And _sure_ , Kraglin could put the pieces together if he thought about it hard enough. Doesn't take much effort. But if he does so, that'll make it real, and that'll make him a _knowing_ collaborator instead of just an accidental one.

Yes, he thinks. Innocence through ignorance. He doubts it'd hold up in a Nova court – but heck, they ain't on Xandarian soil no more.

So when Udonta and Isla walk him all the way to his dorm's door, claiming they've got business with the supply rooms on the same level, he doesn't protest. "I'll see ya tomorrow, I guess?" he says. Isla nods. Udonta shrugs. "Alright. Um. G'night."

"Night, Kraglin," Udonta says.

* * *

 **Please review.**


	15. Chapter 15

**In which Kraglin meets Jora, has A Crisis, and prays for an angel.**

* * *

Kraglin's first impression of the captain is that she's old. His second impression is that this in no way sabotages her ability to strike terror into the hearts of Ravager novices like himself, and his third is that this is a fact of which she is well aware.

"Who the fuck are you?" she barks when he steps on the Bridge, coat looking almost-ironed after a night spent pressed under his mattress. And then, before he can answer – "And the fuck's wrong with your chest?"

Kraglin swallows air. He's suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. "Uh, which one d'you want me to answer first…?"

He's rescued by Isla; she stumps across the length of the Bridge, clearing Ravagers from her path with a few well-placed elbows, and settles her arm around Kraglin's hips. She can't reach any higher, he supposes, but it still makes the squeeze she gives him awkwardly intimate.

"This 'uns one of mine. Name's Kraglin… Kraglin Obfon-something. Petty crime guy, good at spotting Nova patrols, picking pockets, and getting into trouble. Thrabba scouted him out a month back – I reckon he's sharp enough to nav." The captain sniffs, unimpressed. Isla's smile widens. "And he's got his arm hoisted up like a goddam loon because Udonta shot him."

That gets her interest. Jora gives him a proper look. Her eyes are folded between a thousand yellow wrinkles, but they're as sharp and cold as sniper's scopes. Kraglin straightens under them without meaning to, and is glad that the metal rafters aren't low enough for him to crack his head on.

Appraisal completed, Jora blows out her sallow cheeks and marches to take her seat: a throne of sculpted red metal that's got pride of place before the massive glass pane. She folds into it with a barely-audible creak.

"He'll do," she tells the nebula drifting across her vision. "Give 'im the rundown. And tell 'im that if he smacks anyone with that arm he's back on scrub."

Isla nudges Kraglin and winks. "You heard her. C'mon, Krags – let's getcha set up."

"Where's Udonta?" Kraglin thinks to ask, once he and Isla are on the nav-platform. Three-dimensional starscapes stretch around them. The immediate holograms are bright as rocket jets, but they fade like the residue of a plasma blast before they reach five metres away, peach-golds and rich nebula-blues dimming back to black. They're incarcerated in a cage of light; it responds to the flutters of Isla's fingers, fracturing and reforming around them to isolate neighbouring systems; zoom in, zoom out; plot routes for energy efficiency and time.

Isla crooks her pinky, exploding the nearest bright dot into a diagram of a solar system. The light splits around her digit like it's a brown prism. "He's cleaning the bogs," she says. "Dagada's revenge. Be grateful the Detonator couldn't be bothered to track ya through your medbay record, or you'd be right there with him."

Kraglin tries not to let himself look disappointed. Isla sniggers.

"Aw, you hopin' you'd catch up with your girl Morlug if you were on scrubs? How romantic, date night unclogging the lavs in Horuz's dorm – you poor fuckers."

"I told you, we're just friends." It comes out stiff. Isla's shove is teasing, but when she speaks, it's serious.

"And that's th'way it should stay. Sure, fuck her if ya want – although knowin' Morlug, ya might not have much luck on that front. Heck, ya can fuck _Dagada_ for all I care. But I gotta tell ya… Ravagers and relationships ain't exactly made for one another."

She doesn't need to say anymore. Kraglin nods, and focusses on aligning their light-speed trajectory with the safebelt around the next star cluster. _Of course_. He's only been part of the crew a month – it's not like he's looking to propose to anyone. But Isla's words, however lightly spoken, are sobering. A dash of dark reality added to his jubilance at discovering a talent for course-plotting that even he'd doubted would manifest – not that he's _bad_ with maps or anything. No matter what Udonta says.

If he stays here, he's never going to settle down. He's never gonna find someone to grow old with, if only because he's unlikely to grow old himself. Kraglin no longer has any pretences about his own mortality – the tube in his chest and his aching arm are testament to that. And hell. He's only nineteen. Nearly twenty, but nevertheless. He likes to fuck and hasn't in quite some time (Udonta doesn't count; he can't remember it, and anyway, it was _Udonta_ ). He's never held down a girlfriend for more than six weeks; he picks his nose sometimes when he's alone; and the thought of _commitment_ is as terrifying as the prospect of honest employment. But to not have that chance, to not have that _choice…_

Dammit. Kraglin hasn't thought of his retirement cottage in a fortnight. Now, for some reason, he can't get it out of his head. His fingers shake where they're dug into the hologram. There's a nauseating lurch as the star map shrinks to pinpricks and whirls violently to the left.

"Woah, woah! Watch it!" Isla grabs him by the wrists, preventing from fucking up further. "You're lucky I disconnected us from the engine-feed. Sheesh, rookie. Ya could've piloted us into a star!"

"Kraglin," Kraglin corrects shakily. He stares at his hands, swimming over with bright speckles, and has the oddest sensation that they don't belong to him.

What is he doing here? On a Ravager Bridge – the Bridge of the armada's flagship galleon, of all places? Learning how to navigate? _Enjoying_ himself? Under the supervision of Captain Jora herself? He's supposed to be laying low, for fuck's sake. He's supposed to vanish into the hubbub of a satellite-port in _under two weeks_. Not… not make connections. Not make friends, not collect people who he'll miss. He'd expected his time on the _Eclector_ to be unpleasant: a trial-by-fire that would deliver him to his shiny, clean-wiped slate. Not a clean slate in itself.

Damn it all.

Kraglin clenches his fists, the signal for the holo-tracking programme to disengage. He backs away from the platform, his arm bumping painfully into the tube as he hops off the step. Isla slides into the vacated place, scrunching her eyebrows in silent question. Her piercings glimmer under the flicker of a thousand resettling stars.

"Sorry," Kraglin says uselessly. "I… I can't do this."

Isla looks confused. "S'just a little mistake, Krags. Nothing to fash yerself over. Heck, ya shoulda seen me first time I nav'd. Think Captain nearly strangled me herself." He can't do this. He can't shunt this conversation onto their usual plane of casual banter, telling her that the fault of the student is the fault of the teacher, etcetera etcetera… _He can't_.

"Loo break," he forces out, and sprints for the exit.

* * *

Kraglin runs to the nearest bog-block, finds a cubicle designed for folks of his basic biological functions, and locks himself in. He's breathing too shallow and too fast; the tube in his armpit whistles like a blocked nose and his eyesight's gone all giddy. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he thinks. _No time for a mental breakdown._

But when is there ever? And hell, he certainly can't go back on the Bridge in this state. Kraglin pushes his back against the door and slides down until he's sat on his heels – he's seen the state these floors get into; he's not far-gone enough to park his ass on _that_. Then he drops his head into his hands and refuses to cry.

He refuses to cry for ten whole minutes.

Then Kraglin wipes his eyes, stands, and blows his nose noisily on his sleeve. The toilet bowl in front of him is bare metal, grey and lidless, liable to freeze the asscheeks off of anyone who can't hold a squat. Its chute funnels into the engine core, delivering waste to the matter-converters – efficient, if stinky for the unfortunate soul who has to climb down and unclog it twice a year. While he's here Kraglin figures he might as well put it to good use. He unzips, aims, and noisily pisses over stained dry steel. Then tucks himself back in, wipes his eyes again, and flushes.

…Perhaps that was the wrong order. Oh well. Kraglin's got bigger things on his mind than pink-eye.

He's got to leave the Ravagers, and soon. He's already in too deep. The _Eclector's_ cramped industrial holds aren't registering as 'alien' and 'dangerous' any more. Home has become a cot in a bunk-stack, a pillow that's as bereft of stuffing as his mattress, and a blanket that smells of sour milk. Purpose has become the steady splash and slide of his mop over the floor. Family has become...

Family has become…

Kraglin swallows stickily, and pulls up his fly. _You don't have no family,_ he reminds himself. _Never have done; never will._ What use is family anyway? Buncha folks who rely on you and slow you down in a fight. He doesn't need that. He doesn't _want_ that.

Mind made up, Kraglin wipes his face once again before stepping out of the cubicle, just in case someone's snuck in while he was distracted with Not Crying. Then he pushes open the door.

Or at least, he tries to.

Doors on the _Eclector_ operate… weirdly. A couple are automatic: the hangar doors, the mess, the weapons stores. One particular hangar entrance is so hyperactive that it's colloquially referred to as 'the chomper', due to an unfortunate incident involving a rookie's fingers and lots of screaming. At the opposite end of the spectrum, you have the sliding gates of the cage lift – clunky, unwieldy mechanisms which require an application of approximately twice Kraglin's bodyweight to shift. Then there's the doors with locking panels. They're immovable fire-proof slabs, designed to isolate single compartments or block off entire wings of the ship altogether in event of a hull breach; rugged, rusty, and as thick as the barricades between rooms. Kraglin likes those best. They swing open a sliver to show they've unlocked. Booting them the rest of the way is endlessly satisfying.

Only problem is, sometimes they stick.

He presses his palm to the scanner again. Again, there's no buzz; no hum of warm mechanics. The door remains an immovable monolith. Kraglin, who had been operating under the assumption that this day could not possibly get any worse, squeezes his eyes tight shut and decides that the only option remaining is to bang his forehead on the panel until it either it responds or he knocks himself unconscious.

"Fuck," he mumbles, rubbing his traitorously drippy nose. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The bog block stinks of stale piss. It's something you notice when you imagine that you'll only be in there for the duration of a slash and a Not-Cry, but ultimately accept. When you face the possibility of being trapped until someone complains about the additional reek of rot, the smell becomes rather more repugnant. Kraglin wants out of here. He wants out of here _now_. He's had his sappy moment. He's over it. He wants to march to his place on the Bridge and set to destroying whatever good rapport he and Isla have cultivated. He wants to fill his head with the dreams of a quaint and quiet life spent evading taxes on the far edges of galactic civilisation, _away_ from booby-trapped tombs and deadly bunkmates and excitement and adventure of every sort.

But the door remains unresponsive, to swearing and his pleading alike. Kraglin inhales sour ammonia, presses his hand over his heart, and starts to pray.

"Dear God. Gods. Ancients. Creators, whatever. If you exist, I'd really appreciate not having t'haunt a toilet for the rest of eternity. Please, please, get me outta here. Scupper the ship. Make all mechanisms spontaneously malfunction. I really don't care. Heck, send an _angel_ if you wanna, just –"

The main entrance to the bogs slams open with so much force that, for a moment, Kraglin thinks his first suggestion has been taken seriously. Then there's the sound of two voices – two very _familiar_ voices – questioning whether they've already been through.

"I say we have," says Morlug. Udonta, however, is adamant –

"Your nose drop off, girl? Get a whiff of that and tell me it's seen disinfectant in the past decade." There's a brief silence. Then – "Shit, I think I broke the door."

"Well, if ya didn't insist on _kickin'_ every one we come across," Morlug starts.

"It's stress relief!"

"C'mon, _I'm_ the one who's been on scrub every other day since I _first joined –_ "

"Only because you don't know when to shut yer mouth!"

"Oh, like you're one to talk!"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," whispers Kraglin. Then, out loud – "Uh, guys?"

"Hey, I treat Dagada the same way he treats me. _You_ just treat him the same as ya treat everyone _else_ , then get pissy when he punishes you for it..."

"Udonta," says Morlug quietly. Kraglin can imagine her eyes flicking along rows of empty cubicles. "Did ya hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Kraglin clears his throat. "Guys? It's me."

"That," Morlug says, somewhat redundantly. "Rookie? That you?"

"Yeah," he says, through the wall. He can hear Morlug's steps approaching, and gives the pad one last, valiantly hopeful thump. "I think I'm stuck."

Morlug doesn't laugh. Much. He appreciates that.

He holds no such fond feelings for Udonta, who makes his opinion on the matter known loudly, uproariously, and without relent. Yeah. They're not the nicest angels. Or the prettiest. But right now, Kraglin'll take what he can get. He's so grateful that, for a moment, all attempts at withdrawing from them are forgotten.

"Hey there," he says to Morlug as he squeezes to freedom through the gap they've managed to pry, breath sucked in and arm stuck out perpendicular to avoid catching on his tube. "Haven't seen ya in a while. Forget to come visit me in hospital?" He ignores Udonta, who's still sniggering as he leans on the mop wedged in the open door.

Morlug's smile is shy and sweet. Her mouth, however is not – "Don't flatter yerself, greenie. You ain't all that." Then she pauses, and admits – "I got stuck in a supply closet on the middecks over my lunchbreak."

"See?" Kraglin tells Udonta. "It can happen to anyone. Might be you next." Any plan to trap Udonta in a loo cubicle is abandoned though, as the man strokes his glowing arrowshaft.

"Will it, now?"

Yeah, yeah. He's good at threats. Kraglin grumbles and stands down. "Alright. You've had your fun. Can we get outta here and never talk of this again?"

Udonta and Morlug share incredulous gazes.

"Not likely," says Udonta. As if Kraglin'd be that lucky. Udonta whips the mop free, the door jamming closed with a finger-crunching crash, and turns to the cleaning cart to find an out-of-order sign. Then pauses. Looks at Kraglin's face. Frowns. "Rookie?"

Are his eyes red? Kraglin freezes. "What?"

Udonta stares at him a moment longer. Then shakes his head and buries his hands in the miscellaneous mound of rags and scrub-equipment they've piled their trolley with. "Nah. It's nothing."

"Ain't ya forgettin' something?" Morlug calls after Kraglin when he turns to leave. She looks sweaty and worn, her purple hair pinned under a black bandana with spaghetti-like strands drooping over her face. There's a mop in each hand though, and she levels one at him like she's sighting a shot. "I can't keep callin' ya greenie forever, can I?"

And this is exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.

Kraglin's stomach sinks. "I… I don't…" he starts. Morlug gives the mop head an expert flick; dirty water splatters his pantleg.

"Whassup? Forgotten yer own name?"

"No, no, it's just…" Squeezing his fists, Kraglin takes a moment to compose himself. He stands at his full height, shoulders spiked beneath the Ravager coat's familiar coat, and looks down his nose at the closest thing to a friend he has. "I don't think this is a good idea," he tells her.

Morlug lowers the mop. Hurt flits across her expression like the pulse of a quasar. But then she smothers it. Kraglin's chest fills with gnawing worms, and he almost looks away. It's wrong to see her alter her expression like this: stripping away embarrassment and upset, replacing them with cold-forged anger, uncaring and harsh, layer-on-layer. But it's also necessary. He hardens himself to it, as she does to him.

"Yeah?" she sneers, resting heavily on the mop handle in a way Kraglin remembers doing, barely a month before. Strange, how that day seems so long ago. "So that's how it's gonna be. You get one Bridge shift, and you're too good to be seen with me."

 _It's not like that at all,_ Kraglin wants to protest. _I don't want to be a non-expendable. Not to you._ Not to Isla or Udonta either, although they already know his name. Morlug at least he can salvage. So he just scowls and shrugs.

"Think what you want."

Morlug's expression doesn't crumple. She doesn't swear at him, or even hiss – but the swing of the mop towards his chest speaks louder than words ever could.

His very tender chest. His very tender chest – which was, not two nights ago, busy being impaled on a radioactive arrow. Kraglin jumps back, already knowing he's not going to be fast enough. The mop swings towards him, slow motion, promising agony.

Then it cleaves in two, neat as a guillotine-slice. The blood thundering in Kraglin's ears was loud enough to drown out the first whistle. But he catches the second: a low trill that has Udonta's arrow swinging like a boomerang mid-air and shooting to its sheathe. Kraglin, off-balance, stumbles over his boots and winds up ass-down in a dubious-smelling puddle, cussing the demise of his last pair of clean pants. Morlug blinks the glow from her eyes. She stares blankly at the shattered mop handle. Then flings it at the trolley and storms out.

Kraglin watches her go. Udonta, stood quietly to one side, watches him.

"That weren't nice," he says. Kraglin miserably draws his knees up to his chest, ignoring the clammy dampness percolating his trousers.

"I ain't nice," he answers. "You might have noticed."

Udonta concedes the point with a nod. "Alright. So you're a mouthy bastard. But you ain't one hundred percent a dick. That?" He points after Morlug, who's left an angry trail of splashes through the puddles on the floor. "Dick move." Any other time, he might have been joking; but there's no humour in his gaze now. Kraglin's mind flashes, inexplicably, to the first time he was caught stealing pencils from the slum's under-aqueduct school, and had been stood up in front of the class to explain his actions to a bunch of brats poorer than he was. He hangs his head. "Kraglin?"

Swallowing, Kraglin drops his mobile arm to fiddle with the clumpy knots in his bootlaces. "Yeah?" he mumbles.

Udonta leans on the jammed door, arms folded, and treats him to an inscrutable glare. "You want her to think you're an a-hole? Fine. But don't ever think that trick'll work on me."

The wetness seeping through the seams of his leather pants is quite noticeable now. Kraglin shifts in discomfort. "Yes sir," he says, and means it.

Udonta studies him for another long breath, the pathetic wheeze of Kraglin's tube all the more conspicuous in the silence.

"Get up," he says eventually. Kraglin obeys, too fast, lurching like a drunk Knowhere-lizard. "Come here." He does so. Manages not to fall over himself in the process. He stops a few paces in front of Udonta, still half-lodged in the mind of a naughty schoolboy, and tugs his belt up his hips to unstick a sodden wadge of fabric from his ass.

"What d'you want?" he croaks. Focusses on the prickle of stubble around Udonta's deadly mouth, because it's easier than meeting his eyes. Thankfully, Udonta tells him straight –

"For you to cut the crap and tell me what's goin' on."

Heck. That's a demand and a half. Kraglin wouldn't know where to begin.

"So there was this necklace that the Cartel wanted…" he tries. Udonta clicks his tongue off his teeth. It cracks like a gunshot.

"I don't give two shits about your tragic past! Tell me what's wrong _now_ , so I can sort it out."

It's such a blunt declaration, so brutally simplistic and blindingly stupid. Anyone else, he'd dismiss it as meaningless words. But here, faced with Udonta's unwavering glower, red ringing his pupils like the corona around twin supernovae, Kraglin doesn't doubt for a minute that he will live up to this promise. Whether through cunning, fortitude, or sheer bloody stubbornness, Udonta is _going to fix this._

Kraglin pares his dilemma down to its bare ores. "I want to leave," he whispers. "But I want to stay."

Udonta nods. "So, d'you want me to make a hash job of convincing ya, or do ya just want me to take the choice away from you?"

Kraglin's air stutters in his throat. The tube blows a soft raspberry. What the hell is Udonta saying? Is he actually trying to suggest…?

…Well, it would be kinda nice, wouldn't it? Not having to blame himself for this. Not more vacillation, no more fretting over this whole fucking dulcarnoun of a dilemma. The path Udonta's opened up for him goes against his every instinct, but it gleams tantalisingly bright.

Desperate, he nods. And just like that, it's over.

"You ain't going nowhere," Udonta says. It's spoken with such certainty that Kraglin couldn't disobey if he wanted to. The threat he tags on is half-hearted, said more out of habit than necessity – "And if you do, I'll come after ya and finish the job." He raps Kraglin's shoulder, avoiding the worst of the damage. It's still hard enough to make his chest-wound sing – but Kraglin is too busy sagging with relief to notice.

He ain't going nowhere.

No more conflict. No more running.

 _He ain't going nowhere._

* * *

 **Please review.**


	16. Chapter 16

**In which Udonta tries his hands at hair-styling and almost kills Kraglin. Again.**

 **After going on about this moment in 'What Doesn't Kill You' and 'TRGTGL', I figured I'd better, y'know, actually write it.**

* * *

"What do I do now?" he asks Udonta meekly, once he's splashed water on his face and feels like a mortal being again, as opposed to a damp sack of shit.

Udonta boggles at him. "Hell if I know?" Kraglin flinches. Hears him sigh. "I ain't taking over your life, rookie. Haven't the time or the patience." He pauses. "And, that's kinda creepy." He makes a valid point. Embarrassed, Kraglin dips his hands under the cool of the tap and smoothes down his Mohawk until the person in the mirror looks presentable.

Udonta huffs. "You pinkies and your hair."

This, Kraglin knows how to deal with. "You Kree and your crazy mass-murdering zealots," he shoots back – then frowns at the expression on Udonta's reflected blurry face. "What?"

"Kree?" Whoops. Well he _had_ been thinking it was odd; Kree might be advanced, but he didn't think they'd developed sound-responsive arrows yet. Udonta's expression isn't exactly amused or irritated, hovering somewhere between the two – so Kraglin sets to explaining himself.

"Well… you're… blue?"

Udonta's eyebrows cinch until he grows a dent in the middle of his forehead. "You think I'm Kree because I'm _blue?_ "

Heck, he's never laid claim to being politically correct.

"It's an honest enough mistake!" Kraglin argues. "I'm Nova, remember? Ain't seen all that many non-kree blue folks, that's all." Udonta's shaking his head at him. " _What?_ "

"Just wonderin' how I lost that fucking bet, that's all."

Kraglin scoffs. "You bet on _four hours_."

"Yeah, I ain't forgotten."

"…Oh." He scrapes his Mohawk over to one side, frowns at it, and recombs it to the centre. He pulls the tin of gel out of his pocket, a shiny indulgent thing that he'd lifted from a stall at the station where Isla'd thrown that fateful party which, after a fortnight in Kraglin's jacket, has dulled to grubby grey. Rubbings of dried gel dribble from under its lid like dags around a sheep's ass. He scrubs them loose, unscrews the cap and sets to slicking himself up. Udonta watches in almost-fascination. And… Well, he owes him _something_. Kraglin smiles at him, tentative, and holds out the pot. "You, uh. Wanna…?"

He regrets it five minutes later. "That's. Hm. Interesting." Udonta, washing his gel-sticky hands under the tap and scowling at the residue gumming up his nail beds, turns a wounded glare on him.

"You don't like it?"

"No, no, it's lovely. Just…" Kraglin pokes at the ridiculous three-inch Mohican pronging up from the top of his head like a dorsal fin, and shapes the face beneath it into something other than horror. "I already have t'duck to get through doors, y'know?" It's a feeble excuse. And Udonta knows it. But his frown morphs into a snicker, and the not-Kree leans over and scrumples Kraglin's hair into a bedridden muss. Kraglin groans around his laugh. "Hell, if this sets…"

"You're gonna look very freshly fucked," Udonta tells him, grin sharp and devilish and...

…And entirely kissable.

Kraglin's next words die in his mouth. The pause is very, very nearly awkward. He did not just think that. He did _not_.

He is, for some reason, holding up his hand like he's about to cup Udonta's jaw.

"Um," says Udonta. Kraglin jerks away.

"I should…"

"You should head back to Bridge."

"Isla'll kill me if I don't…"

"Damn right."

Neither of them step back. "This is a really bad idea," Udonta mutters. Kraglin can't tell which of them he's trying to convince. But if he keeps talking like that, one of them's going to remember that the main door to the bogs isn't locked, or that this whole place stinks of gastric gas and Shorro's digested cooking, or that neither of them are expert practitioners of dental hygiene. It's on Kraglin to take initiative. He settles his hand around the back of Udonta's neck – Udonta side-eying his arm like he's not quite sure what it's doing there. Then he darts in, quick as a snake, and kisses him.

"Mmf –"

That noise is the first hint that this might not have been the best idea. The second is the knee that bounces sharply into his groin, and the third is the whistle.

Kraglin, chest protesting as he hacks up sour spit, almost falls. He manages to lock his knees before he runs himself through – again – on Udonta's arrow. Which is flickering an inch in front of his nose. Also again.

"I thought we were past this!" he wails, once he's certain opening his mouth won't invoke vomit. Fuck, that hurts. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Like boiling water's pouring into his stomach backwards. His hands are squeezed between his thighs, and he stands at a half-squat that's the closest he can get to the foetal position without curling on the floor.

"The fuck d'you think you're doing?" Udonta yells back, backed up against the sinks. His arrow blazes brighter, so fierce that Kraglin has to squint to prevent temporary blindness. "You wanna eat a higher life form, you go find someone who ain't been named yet! Fuck!"

Kraglin lifts his blotchy red face, eyes scrunched as his crotch informs him that Udonta's patella is forged from vibranium. "Eat?" he gasps. "What the _fuck?_ What the _fuck_ are you talkin' about?"

"You!" Udonta shouts, punctuating with a jab of the arrow. Kraglin holds his ground, in too much pain to contemplate ducking, and Udonta has to whistle again so that he doesn't spear him in the forehead. "You were gonna bite me, you _freak_ –"

Oh, this is _enough._ Kraglin glares past the arrow and hisses through trembling lips – "I was tryin' ta _kiss_ you! Fuck!" He spots the stupefied set to Udonta's mouth. "Are you kiddin' me? How can ya not know what a _kiss_ is?"

Udonta growls and spins away, stomping through the puddles and dictating his speech to the sloped roof. His arrow doesn't wobble. Judging from how he's waving his arms about, he's either miming bludgeoning Kraglin to his death or practicing for take-off. "Course I fucking have! I ain't retarded! But we're _Ravagers!_ Ain't like Ravagers go around _kissing_ each other, is it?"

That's… true. The fight folds out of Kraglin. _Excellent_. He's committed himself to a ship where crew are more likely to try and eat each other than make out.

"Udonta," he says.

"Call me fuckin' Yondu," Udonta spits. "Ya just _kissed_ me, I think we've reached that stage."

"Yondu then." He struggles upright, one arm pushed forwards so it doesn't bump his tube, and tries not to wince too noticeably as his bruised bollocks resettle. The arrow hums, but doesn't react. Kraglin's gotten a hell of a lot better at apologising over the last month, but most of the time it's been insincere; it takes him a while to generate a genuine tone. "I should've asked ya beforehand, I guess. I'm… I'm sorry?"

Yondu snorts, back still turned. But the arrow retreats to its holster with a brusque whistle, allowing Kraglin to breathe as easy as is possible with a punctured lung once more. "Whatever," he says. "Just don't do it again."

No kissing. He can handle that. Kraglin bobs his head.

"Gotcha. Uh." The question's on his tongue; but how does one begin to ask? "What about… the other… stuff?"

Yondu spares him a flat look. "The other stuff."

"The other stuff," Kraglin affirms. His ears, for some reason, are getting hot.

Yondu's frown looks like it's struggling to maintain itself. "We'll see."

Isn't pretending that the other person's naked meant to _stop_ you blushing? Perhaps this is the wrong situation. Kraglin coughs into his fist.

"Tonight?"

"Next week?" Yondu offers instead. Nods to Kraglin's busted chest – "After your lungs ain't gonna deflate if I fuck you too hard?"

Kraglin... really should have considered that. Both the tube-issue, and the potential for him to be fuckee. "About that," he says. Coughs again, although his airways are so clear they scratch that his inhalations scratch. "I ain't really… I don't think…"

"Aw," Yondu mocks. He props his hands on his hips and cants forwards so that the watery yellow light outlines… well, _everything_. Stupid leather pants. "You scared?"

Just a little. Like hell is he going to admit it though. "Of your cock? As if!"

Yondu smirks to himself. "Good. Cause fair's fair."

Is that what this is about? Shaking his head, Kraglin assumes a similar position. "Hey, that don't count. I don't even remember!"

"Yeah, well my ass sure did the next morning. Call it payback."

Kraglin remembers he'd been _tender_ too, if in a different area. And the distinct lack of anything in his pockets that could have been used for lubricant. And the various dark insinuations that 'payback' might contain.

"Y-you don't mean…"

Udonta, taken aback at the sudden tremor in his voice, puckers his eyebrows like Kraglin's a particularly infuriating jigsaw. "What don't I mean?"

Kraglin swallows. "Is it gonna hurt?" He can't meet Udonta's eyes. There's silence. Then a noisy sigh.

"Damn, what sort of nonsense are ya filling your head with? I don't go round fucking folks dry." The way he says that is… well, rather _accusatory_. Bristling is the easiest way of banishing lingering embarrassment. Kraglin latches onto this escape with eagerness.

"I was drunk!" he protests. "You were drunk! Everybody was goddam drunk! And you tried to _murder_ me the next morning! Ain't that payback enough?"

"'Payback'? _That's_ what you're hung up on?" Yondu laughs, and Kraglin curses him for being so quick on the uptake. "If I was looking for revenge, you'd be lyin' squished in some rich fuck's burial mound right now." Kraglin shrugs in moody acquiescence. He's not enough of a sore loser to refuse to grant him that. Although Yondu doesn't stop there: "… Or poisoned by Varra. Or whipped by Dagada. Or with an arrow through yer skull in a bed on that crappy lil' supergiant satellite – if it ain't too thick for my arrow to get through, that is."

Kraglin groans. "Alright, alright. I'm forever in your debt. Congratulations."

"Don't you forget it." Udonta's grin is easy and familiar. Kraglin can't stay hostile when confronted with that – he relaxes, running his fingers through his scruffy thatch in a last-minute attempt to get it to lay flat, and grimaces at how pink the face in the mirror is. Life must be so much easier when your blood matches your skintone.

"So, the lesson's… What? Never take what you say seriously?"

Yondu's fingers brush his arrow. "Only if you've gotta deathwish." _Right_. "Lesson's for you not to live your life thinkin' everyone's out to get ya." A beat. "Well. I ain't. Can't speak for anyone else."

Kraglin crooks up a corner of his mouth. "Better than nothing, I suppose." He gives his hair one last pat, abandons it as a lost cause, and turns for the door. "I, uh, really should head for the Bridge. Or find Morlug."

"Good luck with that last one." Deeming that their moment of… whatever it was is over, Yondu heads for the cart and assesses his selection of solvents. He almost sounds sincere. Kraglin's willing to take whatever well-wishing he can get – heaven knows he'll need it.

* * *

 **So they finally kissed. Took 'em long enough. Please leave a comment if you're actually reading this!**


	17. Chapter 17

**In which the wild Morlug is appeased, Kraglin gets his tube out (not like that), and we prepare to advance into the second phase of the story.**

 **Super-short little chapter. This is the final part of this main arc in BIOTS - next chappie starts the next big section!**

* * *

Knock, knock.

"Morlug?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Pause. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Morlug, can I talk to you?"

"Go fuck yourself on Udonta's fucking arrow."

Swallow. Decide not to comment.

"I'm going to talk to you. Are you going to listen?"

"Go fuck yourself on Udonta's arrow and _light yourself on fire._ "

Right. Kraglin sighs and rests his good side on the wall next to the storage bunker. Morlug, ever the wizard with the _Eclector_ 's temperamental hatches and panels, has squeezed into one of the supply closets and effectively barricaded herself in by pulling the circuits out of the opening mechanism. She's got the know-how to put them all to rights again. Kraglin doesn't. But he reckons he's tenacious enough to make up for it – and thankfully, she didn't have the foresight to realise that her fortress could also act as a cell. Right now, she's only got two options – to listen, or come out and smack him. Both, Kraglin believes, are productive outcomes.

"So, I said some shit that I didn't mean," he begins.

"Go fuck yourself on Udonta's arrow, light yourself on fire, and…" She trails off. Kraglin waits, then raps his knuckles on the wall besides his head.

"You okay?"

Morlug sniffs. "Just run out of insults."

"Oh." Kraglin tries for encouraging – "Hey, you were doin' really well until now. Not too inventive. But visual, y'know?"

A wet snort. "Toss yourself in the engines."

"There! See?" There's another quiet sniff. Kraglin sandwiches his ear to the wall and prays she isn't crying. "Morlug? I'm sorry."

"Nothin' for you to be sorry about," Morlug says. Her voice, however, contradicts; it's snotty, stodgy, and far from stable. "S'the way the universe works, right? Everyone else's out for themselves. Don't see why you should act any different."

"I was just _sayin'_ that crap, Morlug. None of it meant nothing." He takes a breath. Decides to plough ahead. You never know: occasionally, honesty really is the best policy. "Look – I was scared, okay? I was scared. Because I thought I was goin' to leave. I couldn't have any good memories – good memories of you! – holdin' me back. Can you understand that? Can ya at least _try_?"

There's a silence. Then –

"Toss yourself in the engines and chop off your ballsack."

* * *

"- She told me to tie my balls around my neck and garrotte myself, but then she opened the door and punched me in the face, and I think that after that she felt a lot better."

Doc, swabbing the raw hole where the tube had sat with something that smells like it should be used to clean high-grade industrial equipment, rolls his eyes. Isla grunts in disbelief. "I'm gonna resurrect the betting pool if ya carry on like this."

Isla, at least, has forgiven him from skipping out on her mid-shift. He thinks she has, anyway. Although if she drops him off in Yondu's bed again, she's really only doing them favours.

Kraglin waits until Doc's finished then rolls onto his other side, feeling the entire gaunt panel of chest muscles protest, and forlornly presses his swollen cheek against the pillow. Morlug's chipped one of his teeth. He's a little bit proud, but in too much general pain to do much about it. He's just glad he's finished his final shift for the day. Eight blissful hours of downtime stretch out between him and the next day-cycle. Kraglin intends to put them to use.

By sleeping. That's what he means. Definitely by sleeping. Because he's not looking forwards to getting fucked by Yondu. Not one bit. Nope. Kraglin's a doer, a giver; he doesn't lay there and take it, and he absolutely doesn't get hard at the thought of firm bulk pinning him down and calloused blue hands on his hips…

…And perhaps this isn't the best time to be entertaining those thoughts. Kraglin snaps his eyes shut, waits until he's certain his breathing's not picked up, and rolls himself slowly off the medical pallet.

"You good?" Isla asks, distracted by a blink on her wristpiece.

"Peachy," says Kraglin. Lets his arm flop against his ribcage for the first time in recent memory, and makes a stiff circle with his shoulder-socket. "Thanks for stoppin' by."

"No problem. Saw ya wonderin' round with that puffy lip and figured I'd find out who'd put it there." Ah, sweet Isla and her obsession with gossip. The woman's a mine of Ravager-trivia that ranges from useless to blackmail-worthy. Which reminds him –

"Uh, I know I ain't supposed to ask after people's planets and stuff…"

"That's right," Isla says. Hunches over her wristpiece and jabs its buttons with new ferocity. "Although I figure a 'but' is comin'."

"It ain't about you. I was wondering if you knew what Yondu – what Udonta is?"

That has Isla glancing up. "Udonta?"

"Yeah."

"You don't know?" Okay, is there some secret he's missing out on? Kraglin gnaws his lip, catches the scab by accident, and regrets it.

"No? I mean, he said he weren't Kree, but there's a lot more blue folks out there, and I ain't too great with species recognition, so…" Isla snaps the cover over her wristpiece's holographic display, effectively snuffing the beacons. She looks up at him, and seems to come to a decision.

"Centaurian," she says. "He's Centaurian."

…Whatever the hell that means. Kraglin strives to appear comprehending. "Right."

Isla smirks. "You ain't got a clue what I'm saying, do ya?"

"'Fraid not."

"Well, it ain't my story to tell… And heck, I don't know half of it. Keeps his cards to himself, does that one." But Kraglin knows Isla, and can tell when she's itching to spill a secret a mile off.

"Go on," he prods. "I ain't gonna go mouthing off, or nothing. And if everyone else already knows…"

Isla has never been adept at resisting bait like that.

"Extinct," she blurts, as Doc finds a new stack of medical equipment to clean. Kraglin jumps, the plosive staccato stresses of the word echoing like cymbal-crashes. "They're all extinct. And they was _planetbound_ at that. Practically primitive. Whole tribe of Terrans buthered by Badoon, and ain't one of 'em that ever crawled off that mudball excepting Udonta himself." Her voice lowers. "At least, not that we know of."

That's… not what he's expecting. Kraglin gawps, catches himself, and clacks his mouth shut.

"Shit," he says. Can't think of anything else. He doubts Yondu'd want sympathy, and he doesn't know how to give it anyway.

"Shit indeed…" Isla startles, and jabs the back of his hand with a studded finger. "Hey, don't tell him I told ya, or nothing."

"I won't…"

Badoon slaughtered a lot of races, before the Empires banded to halt their advance. Alpha-Centaurii, wherever that may be, has faded into the endless reel of names that scroll over the Nova recruitment holovids – _we could've saved them, if only we'd had more soldiers_. All bullshit, of course – fact of the matter was, no Empire cared so long as the Badoon were only picking off planetbound Terrans; when the threat encroached on their own territories, that was when they acted.

Hypocritical rich fuckheads, the lot of 'em. Not that he'd have gone swanning to the rescue of the Centaurians, nor any other race for that matter – but at least he doesn't pretend that he would've done, had circumstances been any different.

Kraglin's mind rewinds, trawling to when Isla'd first found him. Standing by a porthole. Straining for the speck of a homeworld that'd long receded. Leaving Hrax had been devastating enough – to know that his planet was an empty husk, scoured of everyone he could ever call his own… Unimaginable. Kraglin can't begin to understand, so he doesn't try to. He settles a hand on his stomach, where a visceral and unfamiliar bolt of guilt is solidifying; guilt for being too impatient for Yondu to talk in his own time, guilt for having ever wondered in the first place.

It's not his place. Even if every other man, woman, and non-gender affiliated individual on the damn ship knows. Kraglin should've waited.

He slides into his bunk and relishes being able to curl up on his side without worrying about squishing the tube. He'll forget about this, he decides. He'll pretend he never asked, until his mind convinces him that it's true. It's with that thought that he drifts off to an uneasy sleep.

* * *

 **So, we've gotten Yondu's backstory - what little Isla knows about it, at least.**


	18. Chapter 18

**In which Kraglin washes windows and nearly has a heart attack, and Yondu acquires a pet.**

* * *

Yondu is, contrary to his word, not returned to the office of first mate before the end of the week. Jora must be _really_ mad at him – or else Dagada has yet to commit any grievous fuck-ups. Kraglin's expecting him to gripe about it. He encourages it, even; eager for a chance to share some of Morlug's poignant words regarding the first mate's mother. But he's only met with a sullen silence, and a palpable skyrocket in tension whenever Dagada's name worms to the fore of conversation.

No container can withstand an exponential increase in pressure forever. And the _Eclector_ 's old and brittle enough as it is. Eventually, Kraglin figures, something's got to give.

And give it does. Violently.

* * *

Yondu's due back from his latest solo today. Was due back. Technically, it's not really _today_ anymore – Morlug's already sloped off to start her night shift, and the hangar is bustling with a bunch of disgustingly fresh and wide-awake next-cyclers. Worry-hour's in ten, but Kraglin, washing the same window in the hangar observation pod for the seventeenth time in as many minutes, tries not to think about that. Sure, Yondu's a little late. But that could be anything. Evading Nova patrols. Giving a Horde scavenger a well-deserving smack-down. (Kraglin has yet to meet an actual Hordesman, but he's learnt enough about the rivalry between the two groups from Isla's tales of barfights, firefights and worse to cultivate a healthy hatred.) Heck, for all Kraglin knows Yondu's stopped off to do groceries – Shorro's menu for this week is gross enough to warrant it.

And so. He scrubs.

Slap, goes the cloth on the fire-proof, pressure-sealed glass. Squeak, goes the cloth when he smears it in a circle, suds streaming down his forearm. Splat, goes the cloth when he drops it into the bucket and unhooks the squeegee from his belt. The window gleams like a slice of wet sunlight. Morlug'd been right all those weeks ago. So Kraglin thinks, as he stretches on his toes, placing the squeegee's tip as high on the window as he can reach, and drags it down in a messy wobble so he'll have an excuse to go over it. There _is_ something therapeutic about this.

One of the Ravagers on refill-duty, who has been observing his lack of progress for the past quarter of an hour, takes it upon himself to chip in – "Y'know, this pod's got eleven other windows to clean."

Yes, but none of them look out on Yondu's empty bay. Kraglin isn't about to admit to that though, so he gives him a withering look, as if the man is being so unthinkably stupid that Kraglin can't be bothered to explain why, and resets his squeegee.

Nine minutes. Those had better be some damn good groceries. And he'd better share.

Kraglin's chronometer's down to five (and his worry, which has been rising in indirect proportion, simmers somewhere around a fifty) when a familiar M-ship noses through the hangar's forcefield and latches up into dock. The field seals behind it, tight as stretched clingfilm, and Yondu sets his controls and wanders into the craft's bulbous main body as the system of pulleys and chains creaks it over to its customary hammock. Kraglin watches the hatch on the ship's backside, waiting for it to pop open and for Yondu to pop out. He is, he acknowledges, a little relieved. Just a little.

But no hatch-popping occurs. Kraglin frowns. Yeah, solos wear you out like nothing else – but if Yondu's actually fallen asleep on the floor of his cluttered ship, that's a first. And quite impressive.

He and Kraglin haven't gotten around to any more sex just yet – at least, not what Kraglin thinks as _sex_ -sex, which is composed only of dicks being inserted into anuses. (Anusii?) Mostly because he's had a teeny-tiny freak out whenever Yondu's suggested it, and Yondu hasn't forced the issue. From his sneering, he reckons Kraglin's a wuss, and Kraglin's gonna let him keep thinking that because it's better than the alternative of Yondu discovering that Kraglin's only nervous because he's so damn excited, and he's kinda terrified that he's excited, and that he really, _really_ doesn't want to jizz before Yondu puts it in and get mocked for the rest of the week for being the horny teenager he is.

Just-teenager. Only a month to go now, before Yondu and Isla ought to quit teasing him for being a kid – although not even Kraglin's optimistic enough to bet on that happening before he turns eighty.

Anyway. There's been no _sex_ -sex – but there's been hands and mouths and a bit of good old-fashioned grinding, which are just as good. Kraglin's learnt that Yondu's as bad at blowjobs as he is at kissing but a goddam _wizard_ with his hands. And that he likes to be bit (although he always complains about marks) and Kraglin likes to do the biting. And that the floor of an M-ship that's seeded with trinkets, guns, old pre-plasma bullet rounds, and various other pilfered instruments of murder-come-torture, isn't the most comfortable of places to kneel when you're sucking someone off. Seriously. Who keeps their floorspace seeded with a goddam stash of old-fashioned explosive charges, and a detonator in lumbering-range?

If Yondu kips there, he's gonna be stiffer than a board when he wakes. Which means he'll be a total bitch to work with and the chances of casualty on deck multiply exponentially, both for himself and any unlucky Ravager who gets on his nerves. Kraglin'd better go scoop him up. For the good of them all.

He props his squeegee over the top of the bucket, and hands them both to the Ravager. "Here," he says, shaking the unconventional gift until it's taken. "Enjoy." Then he saunters to the door, prods the biolock, and tramps wet footprints over to Yondu's ship.

"Oi!" he calls, once he's activated the external override on the hatch and let himself in. Sneaking up on Yondu's tempting, but also no doubt a surefire way to get an arrow through the head. "Oi, Yondu! You alive?"

There's a crunch from the wing to his right, and a muffled curse. Kraglin picks his way between a mound of half-powdered compact-carb cubes and protein squares, and a collection of ancient skrull bazookas that have had their safeties snapped off completely. He taps on the door. It opens. Yondu stands in it, looking frazzled but bright-eyed, and very much not asleep. He also looks… shifty. It's not an expression Kraglin associates with Yondu, and so it puts him instantly on edge.

"Uh," he says. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," replies Yondu. Scratches at his stubble and rubs the back of his neck like he's trying to iron out a crease. It's not a tell, not quite, but…

"You… sure?" Kraglin asks delicately. There's something in the storage space behind Yondu; something big and crate-like that wasn't there the last time he cleaned… Yondu sidles forwards, the door filling the gap and blocking off his view. Kraglin relocates to Yondu and finds him glaring.

"Yep. Hey, ain't ya supposed to be on night-shift?" Classic redirection. Oh no. He's not getting out of this that easily.

"Weren't you supposed to be back hours ago?" Kraglin shoots in return. Yondu effects an innocent shrug.

"Got caught up in somethin'."

"Right."

They stand in silence. Yondu's fingers tap on his crossed arm, a rhythm to a song from a world far from Kraglin's own, and he pretends to check his chronometer.

"What's in the box?" Kraglin asks.

Yondu blinks like he has to place what Kraglin's on about, then shrugs again. "Nothing." The reply is perfectly timed, perfectly toned. _Rehearsed._

"Nothing," repeats Kraglin. He injects his voice with dubiousness. Yondu leans his weight on the doorframe, so that Kraglin's efforts to catch a glimpse of the object beyond are met with crackly red leather and sleek blue skin.

"Yep. Empty. Figured the boys in Storage could use it."

'Nothing' takes this opportunity to growl. Yondu very almost winces.

"I think your Nothing's hungry," Kraglin says. Yondu narrows his eyes at him until Kraglin realises that he's not as funny as he thinks he is, and holds up his hands in apology. "Alright, alright. Keep your secrets. You and Nothing have a fun night, now." He turns to leave. And makes it to the door before his passage is halted by a gruff sigh and the sound of a door being opened and propped with a canister of pressurized fire-foam.

"Come on then," Yondu says.

There's a lot of things Kraglin would like to say. They all start and end with the same concept though, so he pares it down to its barest components and blurts it for the galaxy to hear – "Why the _fuck_ have you brought a _bilgesnipe_ on board?" A blue palms slaps over his mouth.

"Shut it!" Yondu hisses. Waits to ensure that Kraglin's words haven't percolated the M-ship and sent the refillers into hysterics, then scowls. "And grow a pair, wouldya? It's just a baby."

They examine the massive creature curled at the bottom of its cramped cell. Its fang-sharp horns and horn-sharp fangs; its back of bristling porcupine-spines. Its weighty ankylosaur bludgeon of a tail.

"Baby," says Kraglin tonelessly. Yondu, the bastard, grins.

"With a face only a mother could love. But ya gotta admit – it's kinda cute."

"It wouldn't fit on your console," Kraglin answers. But his head's still spinning – at the size of the thing, which completely fills out Yondu's storage space – no way did he wedge the container through the door; he must've popped the M-ship's outer shell and rebuilt it around it. And at the sheer horror that he's sharing a dimension with something this monstrous. Which brings him back to the question at hand – "The fuck's it doing on your ship?" Or more importantly, on the _Eclector_. Because hell, if anyone finds out about this…

"Job," says Yondu. "We're passing Knowhere in three cycles – we drop off Baby with the Collector, pick up our well-deserved forty million units, and go brag to Jora that we've made more in under a week than Dagada's organised in a _month_."

Kraglin gapes at him. "That's it? That's your plan for making first mate again?"

Yondu frowns. "What's wrong with it?"

What can he say? It's idiotic? Dangerous? Foolhardy and reckless and probably going to _work_ , because this is Yondu, after all. Kraglin passes a hand over his eyes and consolidates his words before spewing them out.

"Look. It's not that this ain't a good bounty. Or a good _job._ Heck, if ya had the resources, it'd be a doss. But…" He glances at that tail, one swing of which could bludgeon through the M-ship's shell, cracking the slim pressure-panels like tree bark. Had Yondu really flown with this thing on board? "Look at this thing, Yondu! What if it wakes up?"

"It's sedated," says Yondu. Nothing's mouth opens – _aaaall_ the way, wide enough for a child to stand inside. Kraglin counts seven rows of teeth, each as long as his pinky, inwards-curving and jagged-edged. Sweat prickles down his spine.

"That don't look sedated to me! Shit, Yondu, let's just tell someone –" He starts for the exit, clammy hands fumbling for the doorlatch. Yondu grabs his arm.

"No! Look – Krags, don't ya trust me?"

Oh, that's just _all kinds_ of unfair.

Kraglin unpeels the blue hand from his wrist finger by finger. "It ain't you I have a problem with," he says. Nothing cracks open an eye, grumbles in its voluminous throat, resettles. He and Yondu, frozen at the movement, slowly relax. "See? Ya can't keep this thing here, Yondu. And – and this sounds fishy t'me. What's the Collector want with a bilgesnipe? Asgardians trade 'em for the Cartel's baiting matches all the time." But Yondu when he has his mind set on something is less dissuadable than a bilgesnipe with a nose full of fresh blood-scent.

"I got enough tranqs to keep it under for a week," he argues, spinning Kraglin and getting between him and the exit. "And c'mon, Kraglin! Forty million units. And the look on Dagada's face. Think about it!"

He makes valid points. But Nothing's directly in Kraglin's line of vision. All fourteen coiled, muscular metres of it. The stupefied twitch of its tail-club is hypnotic.

"Hell no."

Yondu's expression shutters. "I don't need your _permission_." He growls the word like it's dirty. Kraglin reminds himself that Yondu's not first mate yet, and that he doesn't _have_ to follow his orders. And that he's not going to kill him. Probably.

"This is a bad idea," he says. Drags his eyes from Nothing – difficult, given that he's monopolized the entirety of the remaining floorspace – and fixes them on Yondu's own in the vain hope that he'll find a glimmer of his trepidation reflected there. "A really, _really_ bad idea."

"Pessimist," Yondu accuses. Then checks around him – an action of habit rather than purpose, as they're safely encapsulated within the M-ship with Nothing as their only witness – and promises in a rough whisper – "Look, do this for me – keep it to yourself for three days, that's all – and you can fuck me again, yeah?"

Dammit. Damn him for even _thinking_ like that, damn Kraglin for considering it, and damn Yondu's Nothing for being the sort of problem that not even mindblowing sex can fix. Kraglin stands his ground.

"No deal." Then, before Yondu's disappointment can twist into anger – "It ain't you. I… I don't trust this thing, Yondu. And I sure as hell don't trust the Collector."

"You ain't an idiot then." Yondu rests one hand on his hip, scrubbing at the skin around his eyebrows with the other like he's trying to massage a headache away. "Okay. Here's what we do. I give him his second round of tranqs. You head to storage and find some more – doc's old med crap that's too strong to use, anything. If Baby wakes up again, we fetch Jora."

It's the best he's going to get. Keeping a wary eye on Nothing – or Baby, whatever – who's descended into slumber, Kraglin nods. Yondu's relieved huff is as loud as its snores. He claps Kraglin on the shoulder, then hooks his arm over and grabs a fistful of leather collar to guide him along the gangway.

"Alright! Off ya go then. Meet back here in twenty!"

Kraglin's tired – Yondu must be dead on his feet. But he's also burning with a bright and frantic energy, and no way is Kraglin going to slope off to bunk and leave him alone with a bilgesnipe, baby or otherwise. Sighing, he hauls the hatch up and kicks the roll-out ladder until it does its job. The last he sees of Yondu, he's slotting needle cartridges into a multi-function pistol, eyes fever-bright and humming that unknown song under his breath.

* * *

 **This is going to work out well! :D**

 **Please, please leave comments if you're reading.**


	19. Chapter 19

**In which everything goes according to plan, there's absolutely no danger to life and limb, and Kraglin doesn't almost die again.**

 **Oh man. I had way too much fun writing this chapter. You may be able to tell.**

* * *

Trouble comes not in the form of a bilgesnipe's anvil-shaped tail stud, but a bulky yellow Xandarian with ripped sleeves and flame tattoos.

"Dagada," says Kraglin, jogging to a halt. "Sir." It's two hours into his night-cycle, there's foreign Ravagers all around, and he's got a pack full of anaesthetic cartridges strapped to his back and another box under one arm. All in all, not the most subtle expedition. Dagada, blocking the corridor, rethinks the question he'd been about to pose and studies Kraglin's cargo with interest.

"What's all this?"

Kraglin juggles the incriminating evidence lower in the box, and repeats the lie he'd told the quartermaster. "Errand for doc." Unlike the quartermaster, Dagada doesn't sniff disinterestedly and return to his account books. Instead he leans closer, cocking his head to read the script on the nearest label.

"That's some potent juice you've got. What would Doc want with this? Most of it's too strong for use on bipedals." Kraglin lifts a shoulder, striving to emulate the ignorant drawl of a Ravager gopher.

"Ain't my place to ask, sir."

"Indeed." Dagada motions for Kraglin to turn, and gives his backpack a leisurely peruse. Kraglin bears the indignity with grace. So much for hoping Dagada'd forgotten him. The bo'sun-turned-first-mate ignores the majority of the crew and incessantly picks on the minority brave or dumb enough to disrespect him; Kraglin had rather hoped to fall in with the former section, but Dagada nurses grudges like suckling teats, and evidently has yet to forget the part Kraglin played in his humiliation at Yondu's hands. Just Kraglin's luck.

"Where's Udonta?" Dagada enquires, rummaging Kraglin's jacket pockets. Kraglin stares straight ahead and answers as dully as he can –

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"I find that hard to believe." Dagada pulls out his hairgel, turns it over in his palms, sneers at it, and drops it to clatter across the rusted panelling. "You two are thick as thieves recently. I can't help but wonder what is it that you're up to."

Shit. If he searches the inside pockets, he's gonna have his question answered. Kraglin holds his breath, feeling the sharp edge of the lube tube dig through the lining.

"Are you planning something? Something regarding myself, and the first mate position Udonta so kindly vacated for me?" He's spun again, Dagada in front of him this time. "Lift your arms. Or could you be conspiring against the captain?"

A brief pat-down ensues. Dagada's hands are professional and sure. He touches Kraglin as little as possible, turning out his trouser pockets and checking through the pouches on his belt. The inspection is as thorough as it is detached, however, and Kraglin can only be grateful that he hasn't been ordered to strip, bend over, and cough. But then, inevitabley, Dagada tugs his coat zipper. "I know you're up to something," he hisses.

There's no one on board who's got the pleasantest breath, Kraglin included. After a fortnight of sharing bodyheat with Yondu, he's kinda gotten used to it. But Dagada's is especially putrid. His tongue's furry and white, and the few solid dregs that can be strained from a bowl of Shorro-slops have been filtered by the gaps in his large, blockish teeth. Kraglin rears back.

"Sir, I should really go, I ain't supposed to dawdle –"

"So you're hiding something in here," says Dagada gleefully, yanking the zip open with a rasp. One hand closes around Kraglin's neck, forcing his chin up and compressing his airways just enough to warn. Then Dagada shoves the other into the lining of his coat. Kraglin braces himself –

Only for Dagada to hastily yank it out again.

"Ow! What the fuck?" There's blood. A lot of blood. It spills from the ragged pit of Dagada's nail bed, where he caught the tip of Kraglin's new favourite dagger and _pulled_. Dagada stares at it, enraptured with pain, as if he can't work out what's happening. Kraglin stares at it too. Then realises this is his chance – shuffles his bag securely over his shoulders and ducks under Dagada's arm.

"Sorry sir!" he calls, sprinting for the ladder-shaft. Oh, how he'd love to stay and offer him an anaesthetic – preferably one of the ones with the fluorescent orange warning label on it, which when pressed, scrolls through holographic messages in every language in the Nova corpus: _Not For Use On Bipedals_. But duty calls. Yondu's still on the M-ship, and they've got a bilgesnipe to knock out.

* * *

Later, he's ass-naked with Yondu in a snoring sprawl over his lap, half a mind on the bilgesnipe in the storage-space next door and half dedicated to the IED digging into his hip, praying that this doesn't all go abysmally tits up and wishing he had a cigarette. Still. He's on Inventory for his morning shift. The next day-cycle starts in three hours. Yondu's not going to move for long after that, so Kraglin might as well grab some shut-eye while he can. He yawns, rubbing his eyes, and sets to scouring an area amid all of Yondu's crud that's big enough for him to curl up in and sleep.

His alarm goes off on the dot. Kraglin jerks awake, thrashing when he realises he's not in his bunk and there's something pinning his legs. Upon realising that that something is blue, and distinctly fleshier than the gravimetric electro-ties favoured by Cartel bounty hunters, he flops down again, intending to take a well-deserved five minutes.

 _Then_ he remembers that he's already been conked out for three hours; three hours in which Baby could've been chewing its way out of its pen (not that it needs to do much more in the way of teething). And that if he scoots an inch to his right, he'll be sitting on the detonator for the charge under his ass, and they'll find out if these damn things are as inactive as Yondu keeps claiming.

Kraglin scrambles to his feet. Yondu's rolled off with a grumble and a thud, but soon finds a grenade launcher to hug. Kraglin prays he doesn't set it off in his sleep. Still, there's bigger, _fangier_ dangers weighing on his mind. He hits the door panel, and pokes his head into the dim compartment beyond.

Then slowly removes it. He's hallucinating. He has to be.

Fourteen metres of spine-backed, mace-tailed bilgesnipe doesn't just _disappear_ , after all.

Kraglin shuts the door, counts to five, and opens it again. Then pinches himself just to be sure.

Then, and only then, does he start to panic.

* * *

"The fuck do you mean it's gone! It can't be _gone!_ "

Yondu'd responded to the wake-up shake with the expected amount of swearing and an unprecedented number of fists. But as soon as the words Kraglin had been hissing seeped into his ears, it was impossible to remain unconscious. Now he sits, cross-legged and bleary-eyed, and leers at Kraglin like this is somehow his fault. "Are you telling me ya _lost it?_ "

" _I_ didn't lose anything!" Kraglin yells. Yondu's eyes widen and he grabs him by the cheeks, shaking his head violently from side to side. Kraglin drops his voice to a whisper, panting through his squished lips. " _I_ had nothing to do with this! I just went to check on it! And it! Is! Gone!"

Yondu blinks. "Well, did ya look in the cage?"

"Of _course I looked in the cage_ , damnit, I'm not _retarded_ –"

"But if someone took it out," Yondu interrupts, clamping down on Kraglin's shoulders hard enough to cut off the circulation, "that means they musta seen us!" He releases Kraglin long enough to smack himself in the forehead. "Fuck!"

Kraglin boggles at him. " _That's_ what you're most concerned about?"

"Aw, just… hell, let's go." Yondu uses him as a crutch to drag himself upright, lifting the nearest shirt from the pile of carb-cubes on the way. Kraglin totters after him, unsteady on his feet.

"You're telling me we're – what? Going to hunt this thing? Can we at least comm it in first?"

Yondu stomps into the antechamber. He takes in the crowbarred wreckage of the bilgesnipe's cage and the absentee roof, and crouches besides the wall's truncated bulb, running his fingers over a scrape between rivets. The lights of the Hangar slide clinquant off his bare blue legs. Kraglin is suddenly glad that they're suspended close to the roof.

"Look," Yondu says, pointing. "Someone pried off the top panels – like how I got it in." As if that wasn't evident. Yondu strokes his chin. "Per'aps they didn't see us after all."

Kraglin could throttle him. Or he could try, but he'd wind up dead and unsatisfied. He strangles the air in front of him instead. " _Please_ , I really don't think now's the time t'be worryin' over that…"

"I ain't worried," snaps Yondu, predictably. Kraglin's so on-edge that he actually rolls his eyes at him. " _What?_ "

Kraglin makes a long survey of the busted, roofless storage chamber, the cracked cage, and the rumpled Centaurian clad only in a black shirt and his skin who stands amid the wreckage of his future prospects. This… is beyond his pay-grade.

"I'm comming the captain," he says. Yondu's eyes widen.

"Like hell you are –"

"You might wanna put on some pants before she gets here."

Yondu snarls and tries to tackle him, but Kraglin has the bonus of having been awake for more than five minutes, on top of actually having a normal adrenaline-response to discovering that the gargantuan man-eating monstrosity they've been hiding on Yondu's ship is on the loose. He sidesteps, and Yondu skids facefirst into the doorjamb.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," he growls, more hellish than ever with his eyes glowing red and blue blood dripping from his nose. Kraglin, preparing to dodge again at short notice, keeps his eyes on him as he dials the relevant code into his comm. "I'll shoot you, Kraglin. I'll do it."

He's not sure if he dares call his bluff. Kraglin glances around, checking if Yondu's arrow is in the vicinity – might give him an extra second to make the call, if it's out of Yondu's line-of-sight. Then regrets it, as Yondu pounces on opportunity and him alike, and dives him to the floor. Kraglin's head clunks off a storage box. Spots stutter in front of his vision; he moans, waving them away to reveal Yondu astride his legs and sans-modesty from the waist down, Kraglin's limp wrist held in one hand as he figures out how to cancel the comm-call upside down and backwards.

"Fucking… fuck… damnit," he mutters as he clicks through the buttons. Kraglin holds his breath in hope. For once, his prayers are answered. Yondu's fumbling catches the call switch.

"Th'fuck do _you_ want?" snaps Jora's, voice all the huskier through the static. Never has Kraglin heard a sweeter, grouchier sound.

"Captain!" he shouts. "Escaped bilgesnipe in M-ship Hangar V need assistance –" Yondu swears and clicks the comm off. " – Send reinforcements immediately," Kraglin finishes lamely. Then squints at Yondu, who's sitting back on his thighs, still naked-bar-shirt (and damn, it is really _not_ the time to be distracted by that now) with an inscrutable emotion in his eyes. "What?"

"Now I gotta kill you," Yondu says.

Kraglin only has time to relish the sensation of all his internal organs dehydrating simultaneously, and to thank his ancestors that he's inherited their impeccable bladder control. He watches Yondu's lips purse in slow motion. The daze in his head settles like a miasma, and he's at once inside his body and outside of it, a spectator and participant in the same instant, and he's going to die. Maybe this time for real.

Then Yondu's comm beeps. Kraglin flops like a rag doll. Honestly. It's a wonder his heart hasn't given out, what with all this adrenaline whiplash.

"Udonta!" Jora roars.

Kraglin has seen Yondu infuriated, hungry, horny, half-asleep and grouchy. Never _nervous_. It's not a good look on him.

"You should get that," he croaks. Yondu motions for him to shut up. Shifts so his foot's pressed on Kraglin's chest and he's sitting on his knees, preventing him from fleeing as he activates the comm.

"Hey captain," he drawls. "What's up?"

There's an incandescent splutter of rage. "You… you bring a _bilgesnipe_ onto my ship? And then you ask me _that_?" She knows. Shit. Kraglin meets Yondu's panicked eyes and pulls an eloquent face. _You got yourself into this._ And, knowing Yondu, he'll get himself out of it. Even intact, if he's lucky.

Yondu's mouth thins; Kraglin can see him chewing on the inside of his cheeks. When he speaks it's collected; decisive – even though his foot's sweating against Kraglin's chest. The arrow-scar twinges under a cracked blue toenail. "They was gonna cough up forty million units for a simple drop-off. You think I'm gonna pass that up?" There's a hum of appreciation from behind Jora; Kraglin guesses that's the rest of the Bridge crew listening in. Of course. Money – the way to a Ravager's heart. Of course Yondu'd spin it like he was trying to nab them all a pay-raise, not just up his pissing contest with the first mate. Jackass. "Nah, it was under control," Yondu continues, well-aware of the additional audience. "Until somebody decided to _steal it_."

"Really?" Jora's voice is poison. "Because I now have _two_ reports confirming that there's a bilgesnipe loose on deck. And that it clawed its way out of _your_ M-ship." Kraglin frowns. He hadn't mentioned that, had he? Yondu, meanwhile, is scanning the remains of his busted-open wing, a smile starting to form.

"Hey, I'm on site and I ain't seein' no clawmarks. It was still conked out when they nicked it. Someone's loosed this thing; and, as it sure as heck wasn't me – who else made a report?"

Jora hesitates. Kraglin can't see it – from his angle, the hologram is a dark pixelated slice. But he hears the weary exhalation of breath. "Some novice," she says – a press of Yondu's foot warns Kraglin not to reveal himself, not that he'd be tempted anyway. "And Dagada."

Yondu's grin is bloodcurdling. "The guy who never thinks ahead, forgettin' to wipe the evidence. Wouldya imagine _that_." It's just as likely that Dagada had had rather more on his mind than evidence-wiping – the logistics of hauling a bilgesnipe around the hangar-deck, for one. Or potentially, a _waking_ bilgesnipe. Kraglin's torn between hoping the tranqs are as strong as Yondu promised and wishing Dagada a startling toothy end.

Jora stabs her finger into the camera on her wristpiece. Her miniature hand bursts over Yondu's forehead in shimmery ribbons. "I still wanna know why I wasn't aware it was on board to start with! And why you didn't comm me earlier."

"Because the kid I put in charge of it only just told me it was missing," Yondu lies easily. Kraglin groans and smacks his skull on the box with a solid thunk. "And I knew ya wouldn't say yes."

"Ya think that gives you an excuse to disobey me?" Jora asks. But it doesn't sound like her heart's in it. "Tell me you at least sedated it."

Yondu snorts, offended. "Of course! It'll be woozy for another hour, I reckon."

As if he has any way to tell. But Jora takes his word on it, inclining her head in a severe nod. Kraglin wishes he had the same confidence. "I expect it restrained in that time," she tells him. "I'll evacuate the Hangar deck and seal you in. And dock any damage from your paycheque." Yondu's grumble is snipped short by a glare. "Judgin' from the sound of that last message, it's already eaten one novice." Kraglin wonders if there's anyone left with a bet on him, and whether they'll try to collect. "Let any more die, and I'll tie you up and feed ya to it myself."

"And Dagada?" Yondu asks. Jora narrows her eyes.

"He can help. And if the bilgesnipe eats one of you, it'll sure make my life a helluva lot easier."

Yondu clicks off the comm, scowl folding into grim contemplation. Still pinned, Kraglin stretches his nose as far away from Yondu's foot as it can get, and treats himself to a drawn-out, lingering whimper. Perfect. He's going monster hunting with the biggest asshole on board, and the first mate. Sure, Kraglin's name hasn't been mentioned; as usual, he's hovering on the peripherals of this venture. But he'll be roped in somehow – although if they crawl out alive he can wager that he'll never see any of the rewards. Soon enough, his prediction is proved. Yondu shifts his steely gaze onto him and affords him a generous inch to extract himself.

"Alright. You, me, and Dagada. Go fetch the tranq box." A beat. "And my pants."

* * *

 **Next up: the monster hunt!**


	20. Chapter 20

**In which Kraglin and Baby enjoy some quality bonding time, Dagada shows off his pistol-whipping skills, and Yondu has a boo-boo.**

* * *

"Don't trust him," Yondu mutters, as they're lugging the tranq cartridges through the ship's pipe-lined underbelly.

He doesn't appear overly concerned about the fact that a spiked tail could smash through walls and them alike at any moment. He's sauntering along with a jaunty gait – admittedly, that might be more to do with stiff legs from falling asleep wrapped around Kraglin like a constrictor than bravado, but it fulfils much the same purpose. Kraglin, who (as he keeps pointing out) isn't _completely_ stupid, takes a break from double-checking each shadow to sneer.

Trust Dagada? As if he would.

They meet Dagada under the ladder shaft to the floor above. Jora's left two levels for them to explore – the hangar bay and the crawlspace, which is really too cramped for even the baby-most of bilgesnipe. The trapdoors to the engine rooms have been sealed. Far above, a heavy red-painted manhole blocks out the light. The only place that's not cordoned off is the lift – but Kraglin figures nobody's dumb enough to risk getting trapped with a raging bilgesnipe while wobbling about in a cage several hundred feet in the air.

Dagada emerges from the North Wing corridor, boot grips scraping sullenly over the bundled pipes. The first thing Yondu does is grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. Dagada chokes for a glorious moment. Then winds his forearms between Yondu's and wrenches them apart, shoving him off. He sucks air, before dissolving into well-deserved, pained hacks.

"Stop!" he spits, when Yondu prepares to whistle. "Stop. You need me."

"Do I?" Yondu asks. Dagada nods, massaging his bruised neck. "Ain't no one got eyes on us down here. I could chop you up and use ya for bilgesnipe-bait, then say it got to ya before I could. Who'd be wiser?"

Kraglin undergoes a brief but intense internal conflict. Then resolves that if he's not dead at this point, the universe must be keeping him alive for a reason, and steps forwards. "I would," he says. Damn it, he's not sending any more bloody bins out into the aether. Yondu's grin is ruthless and without a hint of humour.

"That's easy enough to fix."

Kraglin demurely relocates his gaze to his feet. "Sir, all I'm sayin' is that ya should ask him how far he dragged the damn thing before it woke up. Gives us a place to start. That's all."

Humming to himself, Yondu considers. Then nods. "Good idea."

Kraglin pretends that the praise doesn't make him light up like a fucking fairy light at a Nova parade – then thinks _what the hell_ , and embraces it. He's hunting bilgesnipe. Ain't the time to be lying to himself. He likes impressing Yondu. He wants to impress Yondu. And he wants to watch Yondu slowly eviscerate Dagada until he's filleted thinner than meat portions in canteen – but that can wait until _after_ their bilgesnipe's safely under lock and key. And there's another scrub-shift worker around to sponge up the mess.

Five minutes later, they're standing at a crossroads situated smack-bang at the centre of the hangar level. Four corridors angle out like spokes on a wheel. The bulb above them rotates lazily in its socket, intermittently sweeping their faces with shadow and glaring red; Dagada's skin catches the light and throws it back burnished orange, while Yondu flushes an unflattering aubergine.

"We got enough gear?" Kraglin asks, thumbing over his shoulder at the pile that's been liberated from storage closets, cleaning cupboards, and any unlocked M-ship they could find. Yondu eyes it up. Counts one tranq gun for fifteen bilgesnipe-sized shots. There's a hefty length of chain –thirty-odd metres that snapped off a cagelift last week and decapitated a rookie, but which hasn't been dumped out the airlock on the offchance it'll sell for decent scrap – and some of Doc's needles. A lot of Doc's needles. They've drained one of Kraglin's boxes to fill the two empty syringe cartridges that Yondu'd already injected the monster with, and so the rest are small, delicate, and utterly ineffective against anything with a hide thicker than Kraglin's jacket – but good for moral support. Kraglin's already dug himself out a handful to replace a few of his less well-loved knives.

"Think so," Yondu says, propping the rifle on his shoulder. "I can't track the damn thing surrounded by all this metal. So better safe than dead." He drops to one knee and starts fitting it with capsules. Dagada snarls.

"Hey! Why do _you_ get the gun?"

Yondu keeps snapping cartridges into place. "Why shouldn't I?"

"It's your monster!"

"You let it loose."

"You've got a fucking _radioactive arrow!_ "

"Which I'd use, if I wanted it dead."

Dagada sputters, struggling for an argument. Looks helplessly to Kraglin. Kraglin shrugs. "He's first mate."

"I'm first mate!" yells Dagada. Yondu shoots Kraglin a glare, who shrugs again.

"Not," he growls, popping the last cartridge in with a distinctive plastic-on-plastic _clack_ , "for long."

Oh, because _that_ bodes well. Whether or not they meet the bilgesnipe, Kraglin has a suspicion that things are going to get messy – judging from the way Dagada fingers the hilts of his twin double-barrelled blasters, he thinks so too. Yondu just glares at the both of them and starts filling his pockets with syringes. He's generous enough to leave Dagada a handful. Dagada claims them with a snarl, and pointedly wraps the chain around his arm for good measure. Ignoring him, Yondu clambers to his feet and assumes a commanding stance in the middle of the four-doored atrium.

"Alright," he says. "We split up. Dagada dumped it in the North East, so I'll scout those wings. Might have a chance of taking it alive if I get to it first." He nods to each of them in turn. "Dagada, South. Kraglin, you're on West. Private comm-line, stay in contact at all times. You see anything… scream."

Pep-talk over, Yondu sets the butt of the tranq rifle under his collar bone, its slim black barrel menacing the shadows before him. He selects his door, and prowls forwards. Kraglin wonders if he can fake his own death and find a nice quiet broom closet to hide out in until all of this is over. Yeah, he's grateful that Yondu's assigned him the wing they've just come from – which is thus the least likely to contain raving bilgesnipes, as they'd seen hide nor hair of it during the tense walk over. But it would've been much nicer to be up on the Bridge with Jora and the rest, watching the carnage from afar.

Okay. So maybe that's a _little_ misleading.

Kraglin blames Isla. And Morlug, and Varra and Figs, and especially Yondu, for being terrible influences on his formative pre-twenty years. Why else would the prospect of stalking through an ancient rustbucket of a ship, hunting and being hunted by a demonic beast dragged directly from a childhood nightmare, make him _excited?_

He pats the knives in his belt. Then the Skrull bazooka strapped over one shoulder, the plasma rifle dangling against the other, and the two rapid-fire blaster pistols tucked down the back of his pants. The West Wing door is a bland circle of red-painted iron. It opens at a push. Steeling himself, Kraglin copies Yondu's bent-kneed creep, and steals soundlessly into the dark.

At least, he tries to. It turns out that stealth is out of the question when you're covered in more weapons than a goddam Modder. Kraglin swears and strips off the bazooka, propping it against an airlock for some lucky scavenger to find. Ain't like he'd be able to use it indoors anyway, not without risking perforating the walls and sucking them all out into the void; the thing's an antique, and as liable to misfire as it is to gum up completely. Still, having it had made him feel better.

"Kraglin." Yondu's voice, from his wrist. The camera shows the underside of his jaw, flickering bruise-purple in the poor light. "You alright?" He must've opened another comm, one between the two of them. Kraglin weighs his answers.

"As much as is possible right now sir," he settles for. If he mentions that his heart's pounding and it's not all fear, Yondu might take the chance to fuck with him and order him to handle this solo. On the holoscreen, Yondu comes to a fork and spins – once to menace the empty hall to one side, once to the other. Kraglin can hear him breathing, fast but controlled. "You?"

Yondu's grin is a sunshine slice of yellow. "Time of my fuckin' life. Hey, Kraglin?"

Kraglin aims the rifle up into a ladder shaft – clear, thank fuck – and creeps onwards. His ears strain for a rattle of claws on grill, of animal muscle shifting smoothly over bone. "Yeah?" he whispers.

Yondu's eyes flick to the camera. "Try not to die, willya? I ain't there to save ya this time."

Despite himself, despite this situation, despite everything – Kraglin's smiling. "I'll do my best, sir," he says.

When two dark cupboards and a trapdoor to the engine rooms reveal nothing more dangerous than an unsignposted wet patch – some poor soul must've been scrubbing when the order to evacuate had come – Kraglin lets his plasma gun dangle, working out the kink knotting up his shoulder. Perhaps he should ditch the rifle too. Damn thing's _heavy,_ and heck, it ain't been that long since he had an arrow stuck through there. _Eclector_ isn't the smallest of ships, what with being the command-hub of the entire Ravager fleet. It could be hours before they come across the damn thing.

He turns the corner.

…Or maybe not. Maybe dropping the rifle is a stupid, terrible, godforsakenly _awful_ idea. Because as it turns out, bilgesnipes have a half-decent homing instinct, and right now, the only way its scent is leading is back the way it'd come.

Kraglin screams.

Or at least, he does in his head. Loudly. Very, very loudly.

In actuality, he manages to clap a hand over his mouth before the sound emerges – the only thing that stops the napping bilgesnipe shredding him there and then. He's petrified, knees of stone and legs of jelly. When he's certain he's got the muscle control to shift his weight without falling in a clattering heap, he backs away. _Carefully_. Every one of his footfalls booms louder than a thunderclap. He's only taken two strides into the corridor, but has to shuffle back in baby steps to avoid tripping on stray pipes. The five seconds it takes him to cover the distance are the longest of his life.

Finally though, he makes it. Kraglin flips onto the other side of the wall, out of sight in case those scaly eyelids open. Air forces raggedly through his nose. He fumbles with his wristpiece and pushes the receiver close enough to his mouth that he doesn't have to raise his voice above a whisper.

"Yondu?"

"Yeah?"

"I found your pet."

That's when Dagada dashes up behind him and clocks him over the head with his pistol.

* * *

"Knocked out… leave him… quick."

The words filter into Kraglin's brain like they're being strained through cotton wool. He squeezes his eyes open, one after the other, managing not to moan as the back of his skull _throbs_. Fuck. Is there something embedded there, or something? Fingers shaking, Kraglin quests out his cranium. He discovers no leaking brain matter, but a bump the size and rough shape of a draov egg that sends hot splinters lancing through him at the touch. He's… he's… where is he?

There's something in front of him, about a metre in front of his face. His eyesight's fuzzy; he can't make it out. All he can tell is that it's serrated, smells faintly of congealed blood and carnivore-breath, and it appears to be snoring.

Kraglin rubs his eyes. Blinks several times, until the warring images leaking through each optic nerve coalesce.

Then regrets it.

"Hey there, Baby," he whispers, as the bilgesnipe he's near-on eskimo-kissing rumbles in its sleep. "Ssh… ssh. Don't wake up. Please, _please_ , don't wake up."

He starts to wiggle away. It's an infintessimal movement – made all the moreso by the fact that he can't move his legs. Kraglin, frowning, looks down. Don't say he's broken his spine. This would be a very bad time to break his spine. Because sure, they can patch that kinda thing up nowadays, if the Ravagers have robbed a Nova med-station in the past moon. But not even Doc can stitch you together after you've been mauled by a bilgesnipe. Thankfully, the source of the petrification is immediately apparent – the lift-chain has been doubled three times around his legs and knotted around a loose loop of pipe that's hanging from the ceiling. The chain's a helluva lot sturdier than it looks when it's suspending you above a bottomless shaft. Kraglin swears to himself and starts to shimmy. Then freezes as the chain clips ringingly off the pipe, and both the bilgesnipe, and the person speaking to their wristpiece in the background stiffen.

Shit, shit, shit…

Kraglin doesn't breathe. He doesn't move. He's fairly certain that his heart puts in its best efforts and skips a couple of beats too.

When you don't have the mobility to fight or flee, sudden surges of adrenaline do little other than fill your head with overwhelming panic, which is why he doesn't notice the tinkle of a disintegrating hologram or the sound of footsteps rapidly receding. The galaxy has shrunk to a space of approximately eight metres squared, which is currently being occupied by himself, a bunch of pulsing translucent pipes, and a bilgesnipe.

A bilgesnipe which is waking up.

Its eyeballs roll beneath its heavy lids. Kraglin sees a hint of red, the tic of muscles in its mighty jaw as it staves off a yawn. Fuck. One bite, that's all it would take. One bite, and bye-bye to head, shoulders, chest, torso in its entirety.

Mind garbling panic, Kraglin abandons all attempts at delicacy and crashes his feet into the nearest wall, praying that the chains will rattle loose. They rattle – they certainly rattle – but little else. Behind him, the bilgesnipe starts to growl. Flecks of drool spatter the back of his neck, along with wafts of hot, moist, meaty breath.

Kraglin doesn't dare check to see if its eyes are open now – it wouldn't make any difference if he did. He sits, grasping the end of the chain in both hands, and yanks desperately on the pipe. It's not gonna come off his legs, that's for sure. But he will fucking caterpillar-crawl his way out of this if he has to. The pipe creaks – wringing another waking grumble from the bilgesnipe. Kraglin's palms slip, sweat slicking the chilly chain.

Dagada… that had been Dagada. Talking on the comm.

Kraglin spares a second to assess his own wrist, and discovers it devoid. Dagada must've stolen his piece. Must've… must've contacted Yondu. Which means Yondu'll be coming. For the bilgesnipe, most likely – but if he saves Kraglin as collateral, Kraglin's hardly going to complain. Only one problem. If he ain't here already, there's no way that he's going to arrive in time to stop Kraglin becoming chow.

And heck. Kraglin's had quite enough of being the damsel in distress.

Dagada's stolen his pistols – of course. The rifle's nowhere to be seen. He's even frisked him for knives, evidently having learnt from experience. But Kraglin's still got his syringes, and – he rubs his legs to make sure – the slim file he stows in the homemade thigh holster under his pants. If he can get to it… If he can _saw_ his way out…

Fingers shaking, he yanks down his fly. He has to dislodge a syringe from his belt before he can wriggle his hands under the chains and fish the file out. The needle rolls onto the floor besides him, a gentle click as it settles between two humming energy lines.

The bilgesnipe's eyes open as his fingertips scratch the file. He scrabbles to reach it, hands straining against the tight-wound chains and his fitted trouser leg – _fucking leather pants_ – and is blasted by an angry bellow before he can catch hold. His grip slips. The file is a millimetre out of reach, and if only he had more _time_ …

Only there's no more time. The bilgesnipe curls its sleep-heavy limbs and lunges.

And Kraglin whirls around, screeching louder than a banshee, and empties the syringe into its eye.

The bilgesnipe screams too, and thrashes. Its leg catches him in the midsection. The claw rends – thank fuck – through the tether between him and the ceiling pipe, rather than his calves.

Kraglin's batted into the opposite wall as easily as a swatted fly. He scrambles into a seated position, gulping air, more winded than he's ever been in his life. Hot blood sluices over his fingers. He can't tell if it's the bilgesnipe's or his; all pain has been obliterated in the present actuality of fear.

That fear hones into terror as the bilgesnipe advances.

It's snarling louder than a rabid Kree, froth bubbling from the corners of its stretched lips. The tranq needle prongs from its eyesocket like a miniature javelin, pathetically tiny, inconsequential in comparison to its bulk. Kraglin scrabbles along the wall. His feet are still tangled, and there's no way, just no way, that he's getting out of this one.

And so… Well, what's he got left to lose?

Kraglin grabs another syringe. It's cracked; there's sticky blue liquid leaking over his fist. But the bilgesnipe doesn't know that. All it recognises is the instrument in his hand, and the fact that another such weapon is currently lodged in its eyeball and delivering a concentrated dose of anaesthetic metatoxins direct to its brain. It sways to one side, then the other.

Conflicted.

 _Hesitant._

"That's right," Kraglin gasps. "You better be scared."

He grabs a syringe for his other hand, and brandishes them akimbo, as threateningly as he can. The bilgesnipe paws at its gushing eye. The other squints at him with a dark animal intelligence. Its nostrils flap like gills; Kraglin, breathing through his nose, prays that it can't smell fear. He keeps talking, mostly to keep himself sane.

"C'mon then. C'mon. You think you're so big? You think you're scary? Yeah? Well, I got news for ya, Baby. You ain't nothing." His voice raises. "I beat the betting pool! I've lasted _two fucking months_. Heck, I've pissed off half the most deadly people on this crew, and survived! Course I ain't afraid of you!"

The bilgesnipe… wobbles. Just a little. It claws scrape the pipes as it resettles its balance, and snarls in Kraglin's face. Kraglin holds his ground.

"I ain't afraid of you," he repeats. Looks it dead in the eyes – in the eye. Holds his syringes firm and steady. "I got two more of these, but you only got one eye left. Ya wanna keep it? Get the fuck back."

"Ya know it can't understand you, right?" Yondu calls. Kraglin can't be distracted, not now. Break that gaze for an instant, and he's dead.

"Just shoot it," he says.

Yondu, eclipsed by the bilgesnipe's spiny hulk, laughs. Kraglin can hear him jumping around, avoiding the lashing tail, searching for a place to aim his shot. "You sure ya don't wanna keep talkin'? You were havin' quite the little moment."

Jackass.

Kraglin's eyes are watering. He needs to blink. But the bilgesnipe's pupil is searing a cold scour into him, and he doesn't dare lower his eyelids, not for a fraction of a second.

"Shoot the fucking thing, sir," he says. " _Please_."

There's a grunt and a scuffle of leather over pipes. Then he spots Yondu's head in the shadows between Baby's legs – crazy bastard's dived under its tail, getting himself a sighting of its soft underbelly. Kraglin, deadlocked by the bilgesnipe's gaze, can't watch him plaster on a cold smile – but he can hear it in his voice.

"Gotcha, Baby."

Yondu squeezes the trigger. The tranq bites Baby's throat.

After that, everything is immediate.

Baby's eye whips from Kraglin. It _screams,_ an earsplitting, awful roar of anger and agony that has Kraglin slamming his palms over his ears and cringing back against the wall. Its fangs gnash, the only warning before it lunges for him. Kraglin flings himself sideways, chain whipping out and slapping it over the snout. He gets a gobbit of drool in his eye as jaws snap above his head. Baby, already doddery from the syringe in its eye, senses its nerves failing and thrashes harder than ever, beating itself off the walls. Kraglin's too busy curling into a defensive ball to see what happens to Yondu, who's trapped under the bilgesnipe's main body. He can't imagine it's pleasant.

It can't be more than ten seconds between the punch of the dart through scaled skin and the moment Baby crashes chin-first onto the tunnel floor. But it might as well have been hours.

Kraglin uncurls slowly, barely daring to believe it's over. His legs are raw from the rubbing of the chain, wet grazes sliming the inside of his leathers. He tests his throat and finds it ragged.

"Y-Yondu?" he stutters. Coughs. Tries again. "Yondu? You alive?" There's a moan, from the region of the bilgesnipe's hind quarters. Kraglin, deciding that a little vindictiveness is well-deserved, nevertheless can't hold back his relieved smile. "What was that? You say somethin'?"

The moan becomes a growl. "Get… This… Offa… Me…"

Kraglin works his pants over his hips, unclasps the file, and zips up again before setting to work on the chains. "It's your pet," he singsongs, over the scritch of metal on metal. "If it's too heavy you oughta put it on a diet."

There's a drawn out pause. Kraglin, eardrums dampened from that last awful bellow, doesn't hear Yondu shift, or bite down on a yelp.

"Dammit, Kraglin!" There's a boot, if he looks closely; sticking out from under the bilgesnipe's tail. Kraglin smirks at it, and files harder. Chips of metal bastion his knuckles. Let Yondu squirm a while. He certainly deserves it.

The boot twitches, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

"What is it?" Kraglin asks. Then sniggers. "Don't tell me you didn't have it housetrained!"

Yondu, sandwiched between the floor, the bilgesnipe's squishy underbelly, and its decidedly less squishy haunches, clenches his fists and wishes he could move enough to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, or flip Kraglin off. "Think my leg's broke," he croaks.

Kraglin jerks, halfway through his sawing. The file gashes his thumb. "Fuck! You serious?"

There's a pained snort. "Nah. I'm being squished by a bilgesnipe for th'shits and giggles."

Clenching his jaw, Kraglin resets the file and scratches harder. Fresh blood dribbles from his thumb, staining an already crusty sleeve. "I'll get ya out. Just… just gimme a sec. Kinda tied up, here…" Everything's sticky and sweaty and smells of bilgesnipe-breath; his grip slides about the unbound metal handle of the file like he's trying to jerk it off. It skids over a rough weld-scar between chain links, spitting sparks. Kraglin hunches and puts his back into the task, working his arm back and forth until his scarred chest protests. "Hey, uh, can ya keep talkin' to me?" he pants. "Probably best if ya don't nod off just yet."

Yondu's boot wiggles again. There's a whimper of a laugh. "Kinda hard t'talk… With Baby on m'back…"

There's an innuendo in here somewhere, but Kraglin's not in the mood to find it. He flexes his aching fingers and drops the file, twisting the remaining segment holding the chain together until it snaps. "Alright, I'm out. Uh." He scopes all fourteen muscular metres of Baby, from snout to tail. "How'm I supposed to get it off ya?"

Yondu's groan is muffled, but no less exasperated. "I don't give a shit." A pause. "And Baby's a she."

"How can ya…" Kraglin trails off. "Tell. Right." Kicking the chains away, he sidles over, inspecting the nearest clawed foot. "I'm gonna try something. Uh. Scream if it hurts, yeah?"

Another groan. "Aw, just geddon with it. I can't feel my fuckin' fingers."

Get on with it. Oh- _kay_. Kraglin crouches down, thinks a moment, and loops the end of the chain between Baby's toes. "Think she could use a manicure," he tells Yondu, and it's not funny but he laughs anyway, just a little grating puff that makes his boot shake. Kraglin winds the chain out, finds the splintered end, and feeds it through the loose pipe next to where the rest of it is tied. For once, he's grateful that he's tall enough to reach without a stepladder. He's not so grateful about being a lanky twig though, when he heaves on the makeshift pulley with all his strength and Baby's leg budges barely an inch.

"Shit," he mutters, pulling again. And again. Then, wiping sweat and blood off his palms, rubs his hands and jumps. He swings on the chain like a pendulum. Baby's foot hoists a half-metre. "Any better?" he yells. He can see more of Yondu's leg now, and – well, it sure ain't supposed to be bent in that direction, but at least it's no longer being crushed under Baby's pelvis. "Yep. That's broken. Definitely. Quite. Broken."

"Cheers, Doc," Yondu says. Kraglin slips down the chain, bootsoles brushing the floor, but manages to keep the tension so the leg doesn't go crashing down again.

"Can you move? At all?"

There's a ripple in the folds of skin gathered where Baby' belly sags across the floor. "Lil' bit." His breath sounds like it's coming shorter. Kraglin's arms are straining at the shoulder socket, and he has to fight to keep his heels on the ground.

"I gotta put this down," he gasps eventually. Then, forcing his tone to be cheery – "Don't worry. Don't worry. I'll try somethin' else. There's gotta be somethin' else."

"Ain't worried," Yondu grumbles. Although the noise he makes when Kraglin carefully releases the chain and resettles Baby's weight on his crooked femur suggests otherwise. Kraglin winces.

"Just… stay there, yeah?" he says, backing away. Yondu pants out something that might be a 'duh'. "I'll go get… something."

And off he trots.

Something… Something…

He comes across his discarded plasma rifle, and dithers over the selection of knives that Dagada'd stripped from his person. He could always _chop_ Baby off of him. But if Yondu wanted her dead, he'd have whistled by now. It's while he contemplates this that he remembers that firstly, Dagada's still out there, and secondly, he'd made a very passable attempt at killing him. Making him bait. Whatever.

And Yondu, the target of that bait, is currently being squished under a convenient immovable tonne of bilgesnipe.

Bait… _bait_.

Kraglin slips a knife up his sleeve, and smiles.

* * *

 **Ooooooooh tension! Please review... :(**


	21. Chapter 21

**In which Kraglin finally gets his turn at being the Big Damn Hero.**

* * *

According to Yondu, whose voice isn't so much gravelly as it is tarmacked and steamrolled, Baby's due to be out for twelve hours. Possibly more, given the extra dose courtesy of Kraglin. Kraglin's still not entirely comfortable reclining next to those massive jaws, lax as they are in sleep – but it's for the greater good; and at the end of the day, Yondu's got it worse than him. So he sucks it up. Scoops a handful of gooey blood from Baby's dessicated eye socket – leaving the syringe where it is in a burst of spite – and, with a grimace, lathers his leathers from neck to waist. Then he arranges himself, and waits.

It doesn't take long.

There's a creak from the end of the hall. A soft hum of warming blaster pistols. Then a depowering click, as Dagada scans the scene before him – an unconscious bilgesnipe, a gore-spattered rookie and the only sign of Udonta a motionless boot – and decides there's no point wasting plasma. The pistols are slotted back into their holsters. Dagada pads closer. His boots squeak inches from Kraglin's shoulders. Kraglin, facing the leathery tip of Baby's snout, curls his fingers around the knife hilt and holds his breath.

And continues to hold it. Until Dagada completes his survey and, lifting his leg, makes to step over him.

Then Kraglin surges up, wrapping eel-like around Dagada's calf. He pushes the blade against his thigh, firm enough to slit the leather.

"Move," he says, "and say bye-bye to yer femoral artery."

This close, he can feel Dagada's gulp. He chuckles, tapping long fingers up his inseam.

"Yeah, that's right. I ain't got no fancy Nova education like you, but I know what this little sucker is. And right now, I can gouge it before you can pull the trigger on your blasters –" Dagada's hands cease inching towards his belt. Kraglin smirks. "- So don't try it. Now, how about you take 'em out their holsters and drop 'em on the ground? Next to me, that's right." He waits until Dagada obeys. Then grabs one and holds it on Dagada, while he sleeves the knife and picks up the other. This, he jams against the back of Dagada's head.

"Walk," he says. Dagada walks.

Kraglin guides him around the bilgesnipe. Yondu's silent – Kraglin only prays he hasn't passed out. He shoves Dagada along, smacking him across the ears with the flat of the barrel when he slows to pick his way over the helices of Baby's tail. What can he say? His crown's smarting from that cracker of a pistol-whip; if he can't return the favour, he can at least relish having Dagada at his mercy and unable to bully him back. Kraglin halts them once the length of chain hooked through the pipe is swatting at Dagada's belt buckle. "Now, tie yerself up to that. Nice and tight. That's it." He checks to make sure Dagada's well and truly trussed. Of course, the man attempts a slip-knot – but Kraglin's no idiot and patiently noogies the pistol against his temple until he does it right. Once he's satisfied, he steps back.

"Ready!" he calls to Yondu. There's no reply. Kraglin shakes himself. If there's one thing his time with the Ravagers has proved, it's that Yondu's a tough bastard. One little bilgesnipe ain't gonna take him down. Not for more than one count, anyway. "Ready," he repeats for his own benefit. He yanks on the chain to ensure it'll take their combined weight. The barrel gets pressed under the Dagada's chin, so that if it's jostled when they jump there'll only be one head exploding.

Kraglin spares a last worried glance at Yondu's boot – if the guy can't pull himself out, this's all gonna be for nothing. Then he wraps his arms around Dagada's shoulders, and sweeps his legs from under him.

The chain snaps taut. Dagada drops, Kraglin wrapped around him like a lanky crab. A dig of the pistol dissuades the first mate from sabotaging their leverage by pushing off the floor again. At the other end of the pulley, Baby's hind leg hoists like that of a Morag canine that's found a fire hydrant to desecrate. The chain doesn't creak – but the pipe does, alarmingly. Kraglin glances at it, sees the straining bolts, and yells –

"Yondu! Now!"

Baby's as light as she's gonna get. If Yondu doesn't take this chance…

Kraglin gushes relief like a broken engine valve as Yondu's broken leg begins to emerge. It's followed by a thigh, a belt, a rumpled leather trenchcoat, and finally, a pair of trembling shoulders and a head. Yondu drags himself from under the shadow of Baby's ankle, just as the pipe gives out and deposits Kraglin, Dagada, several metres of chain, and a deluge of freezing phosphorescent blue coolant onto the floor.

Kraglin's saved from the worst of the burns by his jacket. Dagada, with his shorn-off sleeves, isn't nearly so lucky.

"Get off me!" he screams in Kraglin's ear. "Degenerate filth!" Cold red scald marks grow over the tattooed flames like frost on a windscreen. Kraglin, wincing as a similarly raw patch makes itself known on his cheek, rolls to the drier side and struggles to his knees.

"Yondu?" he calls.

"M'good." And he is. Yondu's sitting slumped against the wall, coolant shivering harmlessly off his coat. There's a few burns on his face and hands too, but nothing serious. Kraglin's eyes drift to the broken leg, outstretched in front of him, and widen in sympathy. "Aw, don't make that face. Ain't so bad."

Liar.

Kraglin is, for some unfathomable reason, lured to touch it. But he knows he'd do more harm than good, and anyway, Yondu's trembling scowl forbids it. He crosses to sit besides him instead, leaving Dagada to wriggle and whimper his way out of the puddle of coolant on his lonesome, the chain still strapped around him in a corroded orange-iron straitjacket. "What we gonna do about him?"

Dagada freezes – and not just because the liquid caking his hair and face has started to crackle and solidify. His malevolent grey eyes flick to Yondu's arrow, then narrow in preparation.

Oh, he knows the shitpile he's in. There's no escape from this: one whistle and he's finished. Kraglin, for one, can't wait.

But, after letting the silence simmer, Yondu scoffs and turns away. "Ain't in no state to be draggin' him to an airlock," he says. Lets his head flop against the wall with a pained sniff; the hand hovering above his leg cleches and unclenches on air. "Captain'll sort him out, I wager."

Despite his aversion to corpse-wrangling, Kraglin's tempted to volunteer. But there's other things to fret about than vengeance. He leans in, tapping Yondu's slumped shoulder. "And Baby?"

Yondu's eyes open a slit. He surveys the heap of bilgesnipe, a mountain of piled muscle and claw that overflows their tunnel and spills into the one besides. The spines along her back rattle against the ceiling pipes, expanding and contracting with every slow breath. "Comm Jora," he says. His voice rasps high in its register, whistles creeping around the edges of the words. "We can keep her in the low hold for now. I ain't used no more tranqs than necessary, so we should be able t'make the drop off on schedule."

Kraglin nods. Then remembers he doesn't have a wristpiece. He uses Yondu's instead, plucking his hand out of his lap to prod at the customized controls. Dagada watches them darkly. Kraglin prays Yondu won't notice, summoning a projected ledger of names that appears to be some sort of speed-dial. Jora's is probably near the top, but he's managed to invert the whole thing and is scrolling upwards from Horuz. But then the floppy wrist in his grip goes stiff, and Yondu pulls away.

"What you lookin' at?" he snarls. Dagada's blistered brows raise.

"You tell me."

Kraglin's stomach sinks. _They must've seen us._ That's what Yondu'd said, when they'd first found Baby missing. _Whoever took her, they must've seen us._ The dislodged hatch meant that Baby'd been evacuated vertically rather than squeezed through the main body of the ship – but in order to find her in the first place, Dagada had to have walked through the sleeping area. Dagada _knew_.

 _Why does it matter?_ Kraglin wants to yell. _Why would anyone give a shit?_

But then he remembers how Dagada'd followed him, singled him out to bait his trap – and how it had very almost worked. He gnaws his lip, considering. Then quietly reclaims Yondu's wrist. Yondu lets him.

There's Jora's name. Right at the top, like he thought. Under it are Varra's, and his own. Kraglin swallows. "Y'know, you've still got Varra's…?"

"Shut up," Yondu says, still glaring at Dagada. Dagada, who coughs out a laugh, sputtering coolant.

"Varra? You keep the contact of a dead man? Knew you were soft."

Kraglin bares his teeth, jabbing Jora's icon. "Yeah, Varra said that too. Keep it up, and you'll end up the same way. Oh hey – Captain! Captain Jora?"

Jora picks up immediately, buzzing into view. She clocks his face – not blue, not Yondu – but barely pauses. "Report."

Kraglin salutes. "Bilgesnipe's accounted for, ma'am. Sedated and awaiting transport." Then, on the offchance that she's more worried than she's letting on: "My wristpiece's broken. S'why I'm on Yondu's. He's fine, really – "

Jora ends the connection.

Kraglin drops Yondu's hand with a sigh. "She always like that?"

Yondu's not looking at him. "Yeah. Pretty much."

There's… nothing he can say. Kraglin's never had a mother-figure – although he suspects that the insinuation that that's what Jora is to Yondu will be met with violence, of the type which usually preludes grievous bodily harm. He's got no words of consolation, or empathy. He nods instead. "Guess we hang around until the reinforcements arrive."

Yondu's eyes tighten where they're fixed on Dagada's tense form. Baby's a forgotten mountain, faded, banished to the background as Yondu and Dagada dominate the fore. "Guess we do," he says.

"This is weird," says Kraglin, hopping onto the stool and resting his chin against his bent knee. There's a thread, fraying around a patch of leather more maroon than red; it tickles when he inhales. "I mean, it's usually the other way around."

Yondu twists on the gurney to face him, eyebrows cinching as he jostles his leg. Doc, busy setting the cast around it, makes an aggrieved noise under his breath. "Don't get used to it," he slurs.

Kraglin smirks. "Yessir."

It's the next morning. A bunch of nervy Ravagers had tiptoed around Baby, rolled her onto a tarp and attached it to the back of one of the loading vehicles from the Hangar bay – Kraglin assumes that's how Dagada'd moved her in the first place. The tarp dragged and jerked across the uneven flooring, and Lizard-guy, enjoying a suspension-smoothed ride in the driver's seat, jerked and flinched every time.

Funny, how he doesn't seem so big any more.

Figs had shown up to help haul Yondu to the medbay. She hadn't said a word to either of them, despite Kraglin's half-hearted attempts at conversation. He's barely seen her since the Varra incident. Since discovering that he had been the catalyst he's wondered if he owes her an apology after all – but it'd sound kinda trite, coming this late. And heck, Varra was the one who decided to go confront Yondu. It was practically suicide. Anyway, then was definitely not the time – not with Yondu sagging between them, and Dagada, blistered and shivering, glaring plasma bolts into their backs.

Dagada. He's stretched out on the table besides, swaddled in anti-freezeburn patches from knuckle to elbow. Kraglin's got one plastered over his cheek, and Yondu's got two, one on the right half of his skull just below the implant and the other behind his ear. Aches like a bitch, if it's anywhere as puss-filled as Kraglin's. He'll keep his bonny good looks though. They both will.

Dagada's not going to be so lucky.

At Kraglin's words he blinks awake – had probably be only pretending to sleep in the first place, to escape Yondu's relentless snark – and treats them to equal scowls. 'I won't forget this', he mouths.

"Sorry," says Kraglin, cupping his ear. "Didn't catch that." Dagada's scarred cheek hitches into a sneer. He rubs the bandage on his throat and, after a moment's deliberation, looks directly at Kraglin and draws his finger across it.

Yeah. That's not subtle at all.

Kraglin disguises his shiver, turning back to Yondu. "How long before you're outta here? A certain person said something about, uh, a storage room. And some moonshine." He can't relay more details; Doc's listening, and there's Dagada to think about too. He'll never be forgiven if their party gets busted. But when Yondu rolls his eyes and mutters 'Isla', Kraglin confirms it with a nod. He's distracted by Doc, who punches the final staple into Yondu's cast and gives it a warning rap.

"No alcohol. Not until the anaesthetic's worn off."

Yondu gapes at him. "What the – I told ya not to use any! Didn't I tell ya? Y'know I don't like bein' all fuzzy." He casts a dirty look at Dagada. "'Specially not across the row from _him_."

Dagada bares his teeth right back. Kraglin steps in before a fight can break out. It's only sporting to let Dagada recover enough to talk before siccing Yondu on him. "C'mon," he tells Yondu. "You can walk it off and party after." Doc looks like he might protest to that too, but when Kraglin purses his mouth over to one side and shrugs – _it's the best you're gonna get_ – he relents.

"Alright. You're off active duty until it heals though. No solos. No missions of any kind. And, after last time, I must remind you – a cast is _not_ to be used as a bludgeon. Under any circumstances."

Yondu swings to the edge of the bed and tests the weight of it in his hands. "Dunno. Reckon I could cave a coupla skulls with it."

"And irreparably damage your joints as you do so," Doc says. He's got all four hands propped on his waist. Apparently, this isn't the first time they've had this argument. "Next time I see you in here, I'll listen when you ask for no anaesthetic. Perhaps that'll teach you a lesson."

Yondu grins. "I doubt it."

If he keeps winding him up, Doc'll make good on his promise. Kraglin kicks the gurney to get his attention, and thumbs towards the exit. Quartermaster'd had a whole bunch of crutches, but Kraglin hadn't been sure which were in Yondu's size. He supposes he's skinny enough to do for now – although Yondu's not likely to lean on him when there's anyone else around. They'll have to limp over to the storage deck before feeding Baby.

That's gonna be fun.

Kraglin bids adieu to another eventful day and another… three? Four? Close death experiences. If Dagada turns to watch them leave, eyes narrowed in thought, Kraglin's too busy thanking his lucky stars to notice.

* * *

 **Yes Yondu. Letting Dagada live is an excellent idea.**

 **If you're reading this fic, I'd really appreciate a comment. I haven't gotten much of a response and I'm considering stopping uploads on this site, just because there's no point putting in effort if it's not being read. Thanks!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hey all - the story has been moved! As I'm going to uni soon, I can't keep up with so many different sites. But everything's over on AO3, at the following link -**

 **Write 'archiveofourown . org', all one word, no caps. Then copy &paste the following: /works/4296834?view_full_work=true**

 **(Stupid rules about including links in chapters, graaaaaah. If you can't get it to work, just put 'Blame It On The Stars' into the AO3 search!)**

 **The story now includes art, and many MANY more chapters never before seen on this site. Plus, it shows it as part of my whole Ravagers series, including the bits I deemed way too NSFW to post here. Please leave me comments on that site, if you enjoy this piece! xxx**


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